The Mistaken Wish
by flamingpoetic
Summary: Vegeta awakens from his death at Frieza's hand, resurrected by the dragon balls. With nowhere to go, he awaits Goku's return at Capsule Corp. Although only alive by accident, someone comes to value him. Three year get-together. Vegeta's perspective. True to canon. Rather dark. This story contains mature language and content.
1. The Mistaken Wish

Vegeta woke up suffocated, dirt filling his mouth as he gasped for air. His body ached as if he had failed to draw breath for too long. Dust scratched at his eyes as he tried to open them. Although in a daze, he quickly realized that he lay in a shallow pit filled with earth. He could think of nothing but breathing freely again. Wheezing, he clawed his way to the surface. As he hacked up blood and debris, he felt his eyes water and send little streams down his cheeks. For a few moments, he remained still, gathering the strength and focus to get up.

Frieza had killed him, but here he was, breathing and feeling pain. It didn't make sense. He had awoken in a grave, and he knew not who had lain him there. Perhaps he was in Hell. That didn't matter to him, for whether alive or dead, his will and his body belonged to him once more. With his swollen eyes, he looked up into the sky. The horizon burned red, and the air smelled of smoke. Lightning flashed overhead. He recognized his surroundings, and figured that he stood on Namek, not far from where he had fallen on the battlefield. What had happened? The skies had remained a placid green while he was conscious.

As his power returned to him, Vegeta sensed massive amounts of energy from not too far away. Two figures slashed at each other in a blur. Vegeta assumed that the two could be none other than Kakarot and Frieza, but Kakarot's energy signature had increased exponentially. Kakarot had finally become a Super Saiyan, and Vegeta tracked his movements in livid awe.

But suddenly, Kakarot and Frieza vanished in a flash of light. Vegeta could no longer sense their energy. One instant, the smog of the dying Namek surrounded him, but in the next instant, Vegeta found himself in a grassy clearing, the atmosphere an Earth-like blue and everything quiet except for the wind's rustling in the trees. Vegeta did not understand it all, and his body trembled in fear although his mind registered no emotion.

Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he began to sense energy all around him. He saw dozens of Namekians fill the clearing. They too, apparently, had somehow returned to life and ended up in the same place he had. Vegeta could only surmise that someone had made some wish with the dragon balls. He looked down at his hands, surprised that anyone had bothered to resurrect him.

Vegeta recognized Bulma, Gohan, Piccolo, and Krillin among the Namekians. They spoke of the wishes they had made with the Namekian dragon balls — everyone whom Frieza and his men had killed now lived, and the dragon had safely transported them to Earth. Goku had ordered that he remain on Namek to finish Frieza, sacrificing himself to bring the tyrant's reign to an end.

Bulma noticed Vegeta at about the same time her eyes caught him. "Why did the dragon have to bring _him_ back?" Yes, Vegeta's resurrection had been a mistake, a complication. Gohan growled just looking at the man who had threatened the lives of his family and friends.

Vegeta laughed. "With both Frieza and Kakarot gone, I will be the most powerful warrior in the universe!" He lay down and ran his fingers through the grass, plucked it, and threw it into the air. He was happy to be alive. It did not matter to him that others considered his life worthless — he could feel the plush earth again, and he could enjoy the simple pleasure of knowing breath and energy.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.  
**


	2. Nowhere to Go

In truth, Vegeta did not wish Kakarot dead. If Kakarot should die, he wanted to defeat him himself. Only a Saiyan had the right to deal life and death to another Saiyan, and a Saiyan's death at the hands of a lesser race disgraced the Saiyan people.

"Kakarot, listen to me," he had begged, his body struggling against Frieza's fatal wound. "Don't be so soft — there's no fucking honor in any of this. It's just a game. Play to win. There are no rules. You're going to have to get over your soft-heartedness. You have to forget about your feelings. You have to — they'll get you killed, Kakarot! Fool, you don't know what you're dealing with!

"No — there's more. He killed our whole planet — it was him — your father and mine. The whole planet-he blew it up. It's true. None survived but us. No — listen; you have to hear this." Tears had filled his eyes. "He took me from my father when I was just a little boy. He made me do whatever he wanted, and said he would kill my father if I didn't. I did everything he asked, but he killed him anyway along with everyone else. He was scared of us! Scared that a Super Saiyan would be born to rise up and overthrow him.

"Kakarot, please! Destroy Frieza — _he made me what I am_! Don't let him do it to anyone else! Whatever it takes, stop him. Please!"

And now Frieza was destroyed. Kakarot had not failed, as he had. Vegeta's pride swelled, but he felt ashamed that he had failed his people. "The blood in your veins, Kakarot, that perfect instinct for battle — there's no denying what you are," he had whispered from Otherworld. "Reach down and deep — feel the pain of those of us who fell! Your brethren were all decimated, your homeworld lost. My father, your father — both gone, killed by him, Lord Frieza. I dreamt, I _yearned_, to be the one to avenge us, yet he battered and broke me just as he did the others. You cannot know the torment I died in. Unless you're the one to finish this, we'll be lost — lost forever to the memory of time."

He did not wish Kakarot dead, but he knew that he had to find some way to best him. Kakarot, who had cared nothing for his race, had avenged them, and he had stolen the glory due the Saiyan people. Vegeta would wrest it from him, and he would prove to them that he had not failed or abandoned them. As the crowned prince of his noble race, it was his duty. His father would have wanted that. If only he could see his father again, show him how powerful he had become, and bear him a son...

Despairing cries from Kakarot's brat interrupted Vegeta's thoughts. Because Namek existed no longer, Porunga could not resurrect Kakarot where he had fallen. It seemed that Gohan would never see his father alive again. Though Vegeta cared nothing for that, he knew that the dragon must restore Kakarot nevertheless. He could not stomach knowing that he could never succeed in the name of Planet Vegeta; having died on Namek would have been a better fate, for at least he would join his father's ranks. That, and Kakarot had become a Super Saiyan, and perhaps he could learn to perform the transformation himself.

"There is a bridge between Earth and Otherworld — you could wish Kakarot there before you wish him back to life," Vegeta suggested.

"That's a great idea!" Gohan said, smiling. "Thank you very much!"

"Get away from me." He swatted the half-breed child away. They knew nothing. The Saiyan race meant nothing to them. Frieza had wiped out the Saiyans before they ever learned what one was. They may as well have never existed. It disgusted him. So what if Gohan had lost his father? He had lost _everything_.

Having already made their wishes, Gohan and his friends would have to wait until they could bring Goku back to life. In the meantime, Vegeta had nowhere to go, and he had no ship. Nappa was dead, and he did not keep friends among Frieza's rabble. Even if had known someone, he could not contact him or her. Perhaps he would escape into the wilderness and train until the Namekian year had passed. Then, he would come to meet Kakarot, and he would remind him of the pride of the Saiyan people whom he had dismissed as no family of his.

"Hey!" Bulma cried, seeking to catch Vegeta's attention. "You need a place to stay, don't you? The Namekians are staying with me. You can come too, if you want."

Yes, Vegeta remembered the annoying blue-haired woman. She had brought a ship to Namek, and her father had lent Kakarot a ship fashioned with specialized training simulations. If he could get a hold of the same equipment his rival had used, he could probably get over the presence of the others as long as he hid away from them. Vegeta snarled in response to Bulma's offer, but he followed her anyway.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	3. Pursuit

Almost immediately upon arrival, Vegeta had located and virtually taken up residence in a ship nearly identical to Kakarot's, complete with its intensified gravity simulations. No one troubled themselves to go near the gravity chamber, as no one had any particular desire for his company. He did not mind the stillness. Tranquility had not characterized much of his life, and he appreciated the change. According to similar logic, he had welcomed some aspects of extended space travel.

For once, he had near total command of his life, choosing when to rise and what to do each day. Some could think him caged, spending most of his waking hours holed up in the gravity chamber, straining his body to incredible extremes. But it was not so to him; no one—not Frieza, not Captain Ginyu, and not anyone else—needed to know his activities and whereabouts. Vegeta rarely felt as lonely as other people might. Others merely infringed upon his mind, his time, and his space; it took enough effort already just to hold his ideas and memories together inside one brain.

He spent the whole one hundred and thirty Earth days this way, saying maybe a few dozen words every few days. Bulma and her mother would occasionally bring him something to eat or greet him on the way to his bedroom—if he had not decided to spend the night in the gravity chamber, that is.

On the one hundred and thirty-first day after his return, he kept a close eye on Bulma and the Namekians. Perched on the balcony of Capsule Corp., he watched them gather the balls together and wait for Gohan's arrival. Kakarot would return, and Vegeta would show him the worth of a Saiyan warrior. Now he had done Kakarot's gravity training and more.

The skies blackened, and Porunga sprung out of the darkness. Vegeta's heart rate sped up very slightly as a predator might once he had spotted his prey. He couldn't hear the voices of Dende, Gohan, and the others, but the dragon's rumbling tones echoed into the earth and shook it.

"I cannot return the one called Goku to you!" Porunga roared. Why? Vegeta swore the Namekian dragon did not have the same limitations as Shenron. His heart sank.

"He cannot be brought back, for he is not in Otherworld. He is not among the dead, and he does not want to return to earth. I cannot go against his will."

So, Kakarot had escaped after all. Vegeta knew immediately that his fellow Saiyan would have found some incredible place to hone his skills, and this fact enraged him. In all likelihood, the bastard had surpassed him yet again. At least in Otherworld, Kakarot had nothing new to learn, but nobody knew what arcane powers foreign worlds had to offer. Vegeta's mind snapped, and he leapt from the balcony, rushing toward the ship equipped with the gravity chamber. He would find Kakarot.

"Vegeta!" Bulma's voice—nothing could be more irritating at the moment. "Where are you going?" A scream of the word "Kakarot" was her only reply, if she could call it that. Within ten minutes, Vegeta had prepared the ship for launch, ignited the engines, and disappeared into the atmosphere.

Once beyond the influence of Earth's gravity, he sat down on the floor, legs crossed and his face turned toward the ship's main window. He couldn't even begin to guess where Kakarot might have landed, so he had no directional leads apart from his own ability to sense energy. By remaining still and streamlining his consciousness, Vegeta figured he could amplify the range of his sensory capabilities. He would remain motionless doing this for hours at a time, pausing only to train, sleep, or eat.

Within the first few days of his pursuit, Vegeta came to realize that this was his first time completely shut off from contact with others. Everyone he may have wanted to speak with while on a long journey was dead. Because he did not often talk to himself, weeks of absolute silence might pass. It reminded him of the time shortly following Frieza's destruction of Planet Vegeta—how the urge to contact his father or his few friends would bring him to the sudden realization that the attempt would never again yield a response. Before, Nappa had served only the purpose of attending on him, but sometimes Vegeta would make small talk with him out of sheer loneliness. At the time, he had found the feeling of isolation foreign, and he surprised himself at how empty he actually came to feel.

Approximately two weeks into his journey, someone interrupted his meditations by contacting him via the onboard satellite communication system. Bulma's face flashed onto the screen, and because he was in such an odd state of mind, a deep sensation of relief counteracted his compulsive misanthropy towards Kakarot's friends. Instead of a scowl, Bulma caught Vegeta with an expression as blank as a sheet blanched by moonlight.

"You stole my dad's ship, you jerk!" she nagged, immediately following this statement with a tirade of similar accusations.

Vegeta said nothing; he could not decide how to respond to her, as he had not himself decided if he was happy to talk to someone or annoyed that she had broken his focus.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I have to find Kakarot," he finally said, flatly.

"Yeah, yeah. I know—the obsession with Goku. You could at least _ask_ to borrow the ship before you go next time. You could have told somebody when you're planning to head back too."

"I might never come back!" In truth, he had not really thought what he would do once he found (or failed to find) Kakarot.

"Sure." She paused for a moment. "Hey, do you have enough food and water up there?"

"About three months' worth. But what's it to you, woman?"

"I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't starve or freeze to death or something. If the fuel tank was full when you left, you should have about three months to go on if you're smart about it. Just so you know, you're welcome to come back when that time's up."

Vegeta sighed crossly. "You interrupted me."

"Well, sorry. You can go back to whatever the hell it was you were doing now. I was just checking in on you. You can contact me or my dad if you need anything. Just look at the call history on the panel to your right. It's easy enough to figure out."

He stared blankly. Nothing worth saying had come to his mind.

"Bye, Vegeta." The screen went dark.

Silence again. If he was honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was glad that she had pursued him, that he had interacted with another person. But since he felt conflicted about the whole idea, he swiftly shut down any emotion, whether positive or negative. He couldn't be bothered with such trivial anxieties.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	4. The Vegeta Belt

Within the span of a month, Vegeta came upon an asteroid field that seemed to orbit two stars. He remembered this place. Inadvertently, the intuitions he had gathered from his meditating—or whatever he mistook for them—had brought him there. The belt of space debris was the remains of Planet Vegeta; the superheated chunks of matter had cooled in the vacuum of space, and they subsequently had assumed the former planet's course in the solar system. Vegeta knew he would recognize nothing among the dead rocks. He wondered if Kakarot, if he had visited, had expected to find anything.

What he could only quantify as a morbid nostalgia drove him to travel along the outer rim of the asteroid belt for a good thirty-six hours. He would speed on to where Namek and its system had once lied after he rested a while alongside Planet Vegeta's rubble. During the hours he spent there, he refrained from simulated gravity training. To soothe his overworked body, he took the first hot bath of his journey. While he soaked his aching muscles, he spied out of a small window, and he traced the constellations of former Planet Vegeta's northern hemisphere—the very ones he had learned as a boy.

As he scanned the heavens, a bright glint caught his eye. It was clearly no star, and a small asteroid would not produce such a glare. The object—for Vegeta had concluded that it had to be some object, probably a metallic one—lay just beyond the outermost pieces of space debris. As he approached it, he saw that it was a Saiyan pod almost exactly the same as the one that had carried him to Earth several years ago. He knew that Kakarot did not occupy it, for he sensed no energy emanating from it. However, curiosity demanded that he at least take a closer look. He directed his ship as close to the pod as he safely could.

A dead Saiyan, perfectly preserved in space's deep freeze, slouched in the cockpit. Her head rested over her right shoulder, and it seemed almost as if she had fallen asleep. She must have evacuated the planet as quickly as she could after feeling the tumult of Frieza's energy blast. Clearly, though, she had not entirely escaped. From what Vegeta could gather, something had violently jarred the pod, breaking the woman's neck in the process.

Her garb signified that she belonged to noble class of Saiyan society. She wore a gown made of a fabric with an opalescent sheen to it, and an embroidered sash bearing King Vegeta's royal crest lay across her left breast.

Vegeta thought her beautiful. He had not seen a Saiyan woman in person in over twenty years. None had survived Frieza's attack, and Frieza had assuredly intended that. Vegeta was six years old when he learned of his homeworld's destruction. By the time he could truly appreciate female beauty, all the women he could have admired were long dead. Occasionally, he would look at pictures of Saiyan women stored away in various databases. He almost couldn't stand to look at them. The sensations that came over him, while often positive, were tainted with the sick realization that every last one of the women that made his imagination, heart, and groin swell had all been vaporized, broken down into atomic dust.

Frieza had kept a zoo of female slaves on his ships, and no one looked down on the man who would visit them now and again. Some kept scores of how many different species they had violated and enjoyed. As a young man, Vegeta had experimented with a couple of more Saiyan-shaped races, but he derived no more than a moment's pleasure from each encounter. He had felt disgusted with himself afterward, imagining what his father, the King, would have thought about his noble son fucking around with inferior lifeforms. _A disgrace_. Naturally, Vegeta quickly lost interest in partnered sex, infinitely preferring his own company. Raditz and Nappa hadn't minded the vilest perversions, but Vegeta's pride refused to let him take part in his friends' debauchery.

Eying the body of the Saiyan noblewoman, Vegeta felt horrified, dejected, aroused, and ashamed all at the same time. At least the images he had admired had portrayed _live_ women. Now, his body excited itself over a presently and apparently deceased woman. He wanted nothing more than to blast away as far as he could from the remains of Planet Vegeta, but in spite of that, he couldn't stop staring at the noblewoman long enough to drag himself over to the ship's control panels. He gave himself a couple minutes to sate his curiosity, but no more. He would leave the solar system and never plan to return. At this moment, he realized he wanted to go back to Earth. If he belonged anywhere apart from Planet Vegeta, it was there.

First, he would find Kakarot in Namek's solar system. He would learn the secrets of becoming a Super Saiyan, then he would defeat Kakarot. So many times he had brought shame upon his father, his family, and his people. Nothing in the universe could ever convince him to surrender himself to his failures, to let shit cover the Saiyan legacy. Vegeta needed absolution from the battles he had lost, the powers he couldn't achieve, and the corruptions he'd brought upon himself and everyone through him.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	5. Alive

As he sped towards the former Namek, Vegeta watched as he accessed the ship's communication system seemingly against his own volition. Bulma's face appeared on the screen.

"Vegeta?" Confusion and surprise saturated her tones, and her eyes widened. "Is something wrong?" She couldn't possibly have anticipated a call from Vegeta; she had every reason to assume that he wanted nothing to do with her, that everything about her enraged him.

"Of course not." A lie.

"Okay." She didn't believe him. Even from the distorted image projected across millions of miles, she could tell most of the color had drained from his cheeks. "It's three in the morning here. You're lucky I was up working. What's up?"

"I haven't found Kakarot yet. I'm heading in the direction of Namek."

"Sounds like a good idea." She hadn't the slightest clue which topics would garner positive responses from the characteristically hostile Saiyan. "Hey, do you want to hear about what I'm working on? You might like it."

No response, but Vegeta's eyes betrayed a slight curiosity.

"I'll tell you—I've been looking at some of the Saiyan battle suits you've left here, and I'm trying to see if I can build new ones and maybe even improve on the design. I actually thought of contacting you and asking you a couple questions, but I figured you'd be busy. I'll tell you what, though—Saiyan technology is _fascinating_. My dad got some ideas from it when he was building the ship you're on."

"Saiyan war technologies are without rival in the known universe. Our scientists and engineers learned from every race we conquered."

"Obviously. The impenetrable, but extremely stretchable, materials in your armor were ingeniously synthesized. What do you know about them? I'm having a hard time even figuring out how to replicate the synthetics, never mind mold and stitch them together." Bulma smiled, feeling she had discovered a commonality between her and Vegeta that she could exploit. From everything she knew about people (human, Saiyan, or otherwise), she knew that those who seemed as agitated as Vegeta did often needed someone to talk to them, even if no one broached the subject of what had caused the agitation to begin with. Some people—and Vegeta was certainly one of them—kept their inner lives to themselves. They might let you in a little bit after years of knowing them, but you had to have patience. It was not within her nature to simply ignore someone who seemed distressed.

"I could not tell you the exact composition. If you collected any of the devices Frieza fashioned his soldiers with while on Namek, you will have access to a database containing information on many species and technologies as well as their histories. The composition of the synthetic materials in Saiyan armor would likely be found there."

"I think Gohan kept one of those scouters. I'll look into it. Thanks!"

Vegeta grunted. He wondered if the blue-haired woman could actually get her mind around the science of an ancient people at their societal apex. He would mentally applaud her if she could, but he doubted it.

"Another question. That okay with you?"

He nodded.

"I've never been able to ask Goku, because he's, well, not _really _a Saiyan"—Vegeta snickered at that statement—"so I thought I could ask you a bit about Saiyan evolution. Here on Earth, we've learned that humans share a common ancestor with the apes on our planet. What do you know about the origins of your species?"

"Much of that information has been lost. Planet Vegeta was not the first homeworld of the Saiyans. We do not know our biological origins."

"Interesting. So you don't know. I've just always thought it strange that Saiyans and humans could have children even though the two species lived in completely different places in the galaxy. It doesn't make sense."

"Are you suggesting that your species shares a common ancestor with mine?"

Bulma hoped Vegeta had not taken the suggestion as an insult. "It seems that way. It couldn't have been very long ago that we shared an ancestor, either. No more than two million years, I'd guess, but probably less than that. About the same evolutionary distance between horses and zebras or polar and brown bears."

"It does seem that way." Vegeta did not take objective observations as insults. If evidence supported a person's statement, and he could see how that evidence supported it, he felt he had no basis for an emotional response. Children and Kakarot annoyed him for this very reason—they did not often deal in _facts_. At least this woman was a scientist, and scientists, typically, at least knew what a fact _was_.

"Wow. That's so weird. Especially since you don't know where you came from. Sorry about the questions. I should probably get back to work. Scratch that—I should probably go to bed. Is there anything else you wanted?"

Vegeta shook his head.

"You have enough fuel to get to Namek and come back to Earth. If you make it to the Namek system, you will only have enough to get back. You won't have enough to stop anywhere else along the way."

"I will return once I have found Kakarot."

"So you're coming back, then?"

"Kakarot will come back, and I will follow him."

"Good luck. We want to see him again too. Take care of yourself, Vegeta. You know what to do if you need to contact us." She could only imagine what had possessed the Saiyan to talk to her in the first place. She waved, signed off, and left Vegeta to himself again.

Vegeta had needed to remind himself that he was alive, that he could speak with the living, that he lived among them. The Saiyans were not all dead like that noblewoman eternally orbiting two lonely suns. This Saiyan could associate with live beings. He did not have to long after corpses and dissolving memories. By living, he brought the Saiyan people to life in the lives of others, and he proved himself to be one not dead.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	6. Thoughts of Home

Vegeta's memories of his home planet were hazy and idyllic, as childhood memories often are. Perhaps he cared so much about Planet Vegeta and its memory precisely because his remembrance had colored it rosily. He missed his father from time to time. Saiyan royalty and nobility had the privilege of raising their children themselves, the children of the lower classes sent away to scope out and conquer weaker worlds.

By no one's measure had King Vegeta treated his son with extraordinary compassion or support, but he had always made sure that he had the best his world had to offer. Above all else, the King had valued competence, and Vegeta did not disappoint him in this regard. The father and his son were of similar minds, and they serendipitously offered each other exactly what the other had desired of him. Between them, there were few "I love yous," but such words meant little to them anyhow. Both preferred action over petty verbalizations. One did not prove one's devotion by meeting a quota of kind sayings, but rather by personal sacrifice—procuring precious gifts or overcoming impossible difficulties in the other's name.

Even decades after his father's death, Vegeta had not once dared to declare himself the King of All Saiyans. King Vegeta would remain their king forever. No one lived to crown his son. How could he, Prince Vegeta, take the place of his father, who had ruled over a live race in courage and strength? Should the Prince assume his father's crown, that crown would rest upon the incompetent ruler of a dead people. Prince Vegeta wanted the Saiyan king and his subjects to live, not die. To ascend the throne meant death to his world.

Vegeta remembered Saiyan music. War marches danced in his veins as he trained as a boy; they made his blood rush in a euphoric rage. He could still recall some of the lyrics to Saiyan children's songs, and he sometimes regretted that he could not remember them all; he knew he would never hear them again. Not even Nappa or Raditz could refresh his memory anymore. On the verge of falling asleep, a Saiyan lullaby would occasionally repeat in his head:

_Sleep while you can, my happy child;  
When you are strong, the nights  
Forget they once stayed still and mild—  
Sleep while you can._

_Dream while you can, my little child;  
When you have grown, your dreams  
Will turn to war and blood and bile—  
Dream while you can._

_Rest while you can, my weary child;  
When you have lived, your foes  
Remember you and multiply—  
Rest while you can._

_Sleep while you can,  
Dream while you can,  
Rest while you can,  
My precious child._

Vegeta wondered if any child of his would ever hear the old Saiyan songs—probably not. Where were the Saiyan women? Who would know the notes and sing them?

Earthling music had, almost more than anything else, convinced him to return. Serving as Frieza's stooge, naturally, did not come with much cultural stimulation. He had forgotten what it meant to exist in a cultural context during his years of interstellar piracy, and only when he immersed himself in Earthling customs did he again realize that societies had laws, traditions, and histories. On Earth, culture was more than just a few half-remembered legends and song fragments; the past breathed, moved, and ran away into the future. In some ways, Earth's future gave _him_ a future. Frieza had destroyed the world of his past; he would have continued living in that dead past if not for the discovery of a new world. To think that he had arrived on Earth by mistake—Gohan, Bulma, and their friends had not thought of him when their wish had resurrected him. They had not wanted to.

Vegeta did not understand Earth and its people, but they offered him a semblance of so many of the things he had missed since the devastation of his homeworld. Earthlings trivialized their world, and he couldn't stand them for that at times. They did not deserve their world, and they never gave his a second thought. Did they not remember who he was? He had been the Prince of All Saiyans, a royal among an honored race. The Earthlings had no respect. They were narrow-minded, and they hated his people just as they had hated him. Often, he would remember why he had taken so much pleasure in murder, dealing death to those who did not value their lives and took them for granted.

The stars that had once been Namek's suns drew closer. In the distance, Vegeta could see the debris of the planet, just as he had seen the debris of Planet Vegeta. He sat cross-legged beneath the main window, searching for Kakarot's energy signature. Nothing. His skin prickled with frustration. He had come for nothing. Unless he gave up returning to Earth, he could survey none of the nearby systems. That soft, Earthling bastard—he always found some way to evade him.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	7. Return

"Hey, Vegeta!"

Bulma had called again. "You'll never guess what's happened. I figured out the synthetics for the Saiyan armor. I've made a whole set for you and the others, and I even made the material lighter and more breathable. You were right about the scouter—I found all the information I needed. This one's yours." She held up a breastplate.

"You had better pray that it is sufficient."

"I know it will be. Plus, it looks better than your old one."

"Assuredly, Frieza would have appreciated a tidier aesthetic. He'll thank you in Hell."

"You're not going to say 'Thank you'?"

"Why would I? I don't know if your imitation is worthless or not yet."

"Fine. Be that way." Vegeta was smiling slightly. He was toying with her. Her success with Saiyan technology had actually managed to exceed his expectations. "I've just been staying up all night working on this stuff. I thought I'd do something productive instead of mope around after I broke up with Yamcha."

"At least now you've decided to spend your time on something less pointless than sentimental nonsense."

"Asshole. Speaking of sentimental nonsense, did you find Goku?"

"Ha! You insolent woman!" He cackled. "No, I have not found him. Don't remind me."

"He will come back, you know. And he'll definitely show up at my place. It might just be better if you just waited it out here."

"It seems I have no choice in the matter. That's unfortunate. All of you idiots annoy me."

"Right, sure." Almost everyone had stopped taking Vegeta seriously when he routinely insulted and threatened them. Except perhaps in the case of Goku, it was an act. "Well, when you get back, I have a favor you could do for me. All you need to do is spit in a cup—literally. I want to sequence your genome. For science and all. I'm really curious about what Saiyan DNA looks like, and how it compares to humans'. Would you be open to that?"

Vegeta shrugged. He could see why it would be an interesting project, one that would yield very utilitarian results.

"I know you didn't really give us the best first impression, but I'm glad you're with us. It would have been a shame if nobody got the opportunity to get to know a real Saiyan. We've learned a lot from them." Vegeta had not fully realized that Bulma had manipulated her speech specifically to avoid offending him; she trod carefully.

"I will have returned in one Earth week."

"I'll plan on it. I'll make sure there's lots of food. Space rations are fucking nasty." She made a face of disgust. "See you later."

Just after Bulma had signed off, Vegeta had programmed Earth into the ship's navigation system. The woman had spoken truly about the rations—after becoming accustomed to fresh Earthling food, he had noticed a deep contrast in quality between it and that which he had subsisted on for years at a time. Humans did not eat enough meat, and they tended to overcook their food, but he had grown to enjoy it from time to time. At first, it had seemed strange to him that he would take time out of his day to _enjoy_ eating. Before, to eat meant only to survive. Humans—or at least the humans he had observed, and they were affluent ones—lived extravagantly.

Vegeta thought about the Earthlings, knowing he would soon land on their planet. Apart from their ridiculous coloring and weaker frames, they appeared more similar to Saiyans than any other race he had come across in the universe. He was no ignoramus; he could clearly see that the two species had enough in common that even a casual observer would presume that they had shared ancestors. If he concluded that humans and Saiyans originated from the same source, though, Vegeta would have no idea what it would mean for him. Human faces and desires may not seem as foreign as those of other peoples, but thousands of years of history stood between him, the Saiyan, and a full understanding of human life.

He wondered why he hadn't cognitively registered the closeness of the human race to his own until just recently. Maybe he had spent so much time locked inside his own mind as the extent of all culture that he could no longer recognize others' culture. This phenomena, quite possibly, made others so easy to kill, never letting him acknowledge their personhood. Non-Saiyans were non-persons, and because he and Kakarot were the last Saiyans, the remainder of the universe's population consisted only in _things_ he could kill without remorse.

Vegeta cared about persons. He did not care about things. If human things became persons, he would care about them. That seemed stressful. His cares burdened him enough already; he struggled to hold them in. He had learned that to leave your cares where your enemies can see them, gave your enemies the opportunity to tear them out of your chest. Vegeta had cared for his father, and Frieza had extorted him through that care. From what his experience could tell him, absolute power meant absolute isolation and absolute stoicism. Kakarot defied this, having enough gall to care for _everyone_ in the faces of his foes, but assuming power nevertheless. Vegeta hated him for it. Kakarot had cheated, and he reaped rewards without effort or discipline.

When he landed, he would harden his resolve against care. He had done it in the past, and he would do it again. It was easy. He could enjoy Earth without it infiltrating him and making him weak. It didn't matter that the humans reminded him of his people or even, in a sense, _were_ his people.

**Author's Note: Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood flamingpoetic here! Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always appreciated. I guarantee a response to every question or review. I love to proofread and edit, so if you want a second pair of eyes on your work, I'd be happy to see what I can do for you. Just send me a message, tell me what you would like me to take a look at, and we'll work something out. Happy reading and writing, my fellow creative people! I'm having lots of fun with _The Mistaken Wish_—I hope you are too.**


	8. Unclean

Vegeta's ship crashed onto the grounds of Capsule Corp. It was late evening when he arrived, and the sun had begun to set. Anxious to breath fresh air, he emerged from the deck. Hearing the landing, Bulma and others had rushed over to the source of the noise.

"Vegeta! You're back."

Bulma's mother immediately offered the Saiyan some iced tea. Vegeta ignored her. Yamcha remarked to himself about how he had not expected Vegeta to return.

"Holy shit, Vegeta! You smell terrible! The ship had a shower, you know. Go upstairs and get in the shower right _now_." Bulma had approached him to give him a more personal greeting, but his aroma of sorts kept her at a distance.

Vegeta was fully aware of his stench. He had refrained from proper hygiene habits for a very specific reason, namely that he, with his training regimen and general constitution, had needed to _drink_ the ship's supply of water rather than bathe in it. He had learned this the hard way on one of his first extended interstellar missions. Although he had a distaste for the way she had _ordered_ him, he followed her anyway, as he already had every intention to clean himself up. "Woman, your impudence does not suit you."

"Does that mean that more ladylike manners _do _suit me?" She smirked as she led him into one of the bathroom suites. Vegeta said nothing. "Go in and take off your clothes. I'll wash them for you, and I'll leave you some clean things to wear in your room."

The Saiyan disappeared behind the door, undressed, then opened the door slightly to hurl his suit at her. "Do not damage them, servant woman!"

"Excuse me! 'Woman' is not my name, and I am not your 'servant!'"

"Cease your prattle. I wish to take a shower."

"You're an ungrateful prick. You know that, right?"

"Leave me." He turned on the water, letting her know he would no longer listen to her. Bulma growled in frustration as she gathered his clothes and exited the room.

He did not have the will to interact with anyone. He was tired, and had looked forward to a hot shower for weeks. Feeling near-scalding water cascade down his back made his heated blood rush pleasantly. The sensation brought on a mild euphoria, and his mind would empty, becoming all body. Because so many of his heavy thoughts would drain away, he often felt quite mellow and drowsy afterward. Before he had left to track down Kakarot, he had established a routine of showering just before retiring to bed. He would go to bed once he felt sufficiently clean.

Steam rose off his flushed skin as he began to dry off. He wrapped a towel around his waist and lumbered lazily to the room the Briefs had designated as his. Cold, white light from the moon stretched across the bed and the floor; it beamed brightly enough to cast shadows. Vegeta noticed that Bulma had laid out clean Earthling clothes on top of a dresser. Methodically, he removed the towel from his waist and hung it to dry on a hook nailed onto back of the door. All seemed orderly, and he liked order. Too lethargic to bother with them, he slipped into the sheets without nightclothes. The smooth cotton caressed his still hot skin like ghostly hands, and he was supremely happy to be embodied at that moment. He admitted to himself with very little hesitation that he loved Earthling beds. Nothing he remembered on Planet Vegeta compared to them. Sleep took him quickly.

He woke up in a cramped Saiyan space pod. A vague dread filled his heart; it seemed wrong for him to be there.

A woman's hand, cold and sharp as ice, gripped his thigh. Vegeta turned, and his face met that of a Saiyan noblewoman. Her head hung from her shoulders at an odd angle. The sparkling darkness of her eyes contrasted with her deathly white skin. Her lips parted sensually and her teeth bared, she stared up to lock her gaze with Vegeta's. Maintaining eye-contact, she lightly swept her tongue across his neck, just under his jaw. An inaudible cry escaped from his throat.

Wildly, Vegeta's eyes darted all around him in a frantic search for a way out. The woman continued kissing his neck uncaringly, slowly dragging her lower lip upwards and across his cheek. Frozen in confusion, panic, and wonder, Vegeta remained motionless as the woman's icicle hands drifted upwards to cradle his head. Her mouth met his, her black hair draping the both of them.

In his mind, Vegeta felt sick to his stomach, but outwardly, his veins pulsed with an energy verging on ecstasy. The noblewoman climbed onto his lap, lifting the skirt of her gown as she did so. Then, she leaned back, reached one hand to her shoulder, gripped the thin chain holding up the fabric of her top, and let it slide down her arm. The shifting weight of her body against his hips forced Vegeta to let out a sigh that sounded somewhere between pained and surprised.

He had not realized it until now, but he was naked. Distress broke him out of his stupefaction, and he grabbed the woman's waist violently with all his strength. She smiled wickedly. "You are not stronger than death," she rasped. Digging her nails into his chest, she shoved him back so effortlessly that her face kept its tender expression. She kissed him again. "Vegeta," she whispered into his ear. It sent shivers down his back. It felt so unnatural to melt into a block of ice.

"Vegeta," she whispered again. Her right hand wandered down between their bodies and found his erection. He closed his eyes; he couldn't stand to watch, to look at her. She lowered herself onto him. "Vegeta," she said, louder this time. The cold vacuum of space closed in all around him, and his core burned as if grated raw by a blizzard wind...

He woke up from his dream.

"Vegeta!" someone cried. It was Bulma.

Vegeta's eyelids jerked open. He saw Bulma standing over him, wearing an ivory satin nightgown. The material resembled that of the Saiyan noblewoman's dress all too much. He gasped.

"Vegeta! You were making noises in your sleep. It woke me up. It's okay. You can go back to sleep. I just got a little freaked out and had to see what was going on, to see if something bad had happened. It's okay. Everything's okay."

"Away from me! Get out—!" he roared gutturally. He hadn't fully come to himself.

He seemed crazed, and Bulma fled in fear, shutting the door tightly behind her. Vegeta caught his breath and remembered where he was. His nightmare faded as quickly as it had come. Within minutes, his mind had forgotten its sharper details. He turned over in his bed, wanting to lose consciousness and forget everything. Lying on his stomach, he couldn't help but notice that the warmth between his legs had not subsided. He flung a pillow against the wall in sheer anger. He felt so unclean.


	9. Identity

Vegeta awoke late into the morning to the sound of Bulma knocking on his door. "There's breakfast for you downstairs. Come down whenever," she said. If his memory testified truthfully, she had been in his room last night. He remembered that he had had a terrible dream and that he had woken up, but what he remembered about his brief time awake remained hazy. Ultimately, he concluded that he would say nothing of it to her regardless. He hoped that he had just imagined her presence. Loathing himself enough for letting a fantasy terrorize him, he had absolutely no desire for anyone else to know of it.

He looked forward to eating Earthling food again; the smell of frying flesh had wafted up into his room. Quickly, he dressed himself in athletic pants and a sleeveless top, and he descended into the kitchen. Someone had laid out a large plate of biscuits, eggs, and ham out for him. On the side of the table opposite his plate, Bulma sat reading a printout of an article from an academic journal. "Morning, Vegeta." He had already begun inhaling his food, and did not respond.

"Hey. So. Do you want to come to the lab with me after you're done? I want to get that DNA sample. I figured now would be a good time to do it while you're waiting for my dad to readjust everything in the ship." Smiling, she peered over at him from behind her papers. A bit of relief came over Vegeta, for Bulma did not seem (at least to him) to have anything from last night on her mind.

"Why not," he replied.

"Great! I'll go and get everything started." She stood up from her chair, stacked her article together, and brushed Vegeta's shoulder with her hand as she passed him.

"What are you doing?" Turning around in his seat, he beamed a challenging glare at her.

Bulma stood stunned for a few instants, but defended herself soon enough. "Just treating you like a normal person. See you in a bit!" She trotted away quickly, giving him no time to challenge her a second time. Clearly, she had cut off any possible response of his intentionally.

A "normal person"—what a title. Vegeta didn't know what Bulma had meant by it. He could not decide whether it offended him or not. In one sense, she had implied that she would treat him with the same respect with which she garnered everyone else, but in another sense, she had implied that he was no different from anyone else, that he should not receive _more_ respect. The immediate implication of her actions was simply that "normal" people—whatever that signified—occasionally touched each other casually. He wrote it off as a superfluous human custom. Bulma had wanted to treat him like a fellow human, then, and not as an outsider, an alien. Confusion enthralled him anew. Among his race, he had craved acceptance and deference, but he could not determine whether or not he desired the same from the human creatures. All they had shown themselves to be was feeble, letting their hearts bleed all over the place; he wished to remain outside of that, surely. In any case, he finished his breakfast and found his way to the laboratory.

"There you are," said Bulma as she saw him enter. "I'll just explain what's going to happen while I'm finished getting everything ready. Might as well, as you will have had to wait thirty minutes after eating before I collect the sample.

"All right. So I'm going to give you this test tube here"—she raised a small glass cylinder with her right hand—"and you're going to need to fill it about three-fourths of the way full with saliva. I know, it's gross, but what can I say—laboratories can be pretty gross places sometimes. Then, I'm going to mix in a special serum which will help grow the DNA into a big enough sample for the machine to read. I'll put the sample on a sensitive glass plate, and a computer will tell me the results. Growing the sample will take a while, so we won't get the data today."

"I understand," Vegeta said. He took the test tube from her, and did as she had instructed.

"You know what's a real shame? The fact that since our stupid planet hasn't discovered extraterrestrial life, I can't publish a paper on what I learn from your DNA. I would get a Nobel Prize—absolutely guarantee it. That's one of the most prestigious awards on Earth, by the way. I can't just publish a paper and then just say, 'Oh yeah—I also discovered an alien life form.' It's so stupid."

Vegeta snickered. "Your race is pathetic. To think that your brains are so large but that you nevertheless have barely achieved interstellar travel. What is holding you back, I wonder?"

"Governments don't fund science. They fund themselves. But what _I _wonder about is how Saiyans learned space travel. My dad and I studied the Saiyan pods. That's how we designed the ship you used to look for Goku."

The Saiyan prince thought for a moment. He sorted through all the lessons he had ever heard from his father about his race. "Saiyans have always been capable of interstellar travel. There is not one point in our legends or recorded history when it was not possible."

"So it's been a really long time, then?"

"Tens of thousands of Earth years. Our earliest legends are of the ancient Saiyan Judges and their clans, each governing a ship that traveled the universe to plunder the resources of the planets they discovered. We united under a Super Saiyan king, the first of the Super Saiyans, almost 50,000 years ago. He had conquered a world much like my father had, and our people lived together on one planet for the first time. That planet was destroyed, and my father defended our people and brought them to Planet Vegeta. I am the last of my legacy." A distant look had come into Vegeta's dark eyes, and he smiled as he relayed the story of his father and his fathers.

"Wow!" Bulma smiled at Vegeta's smile. She folded her brow and raised one hand to her chin in thought. "You've been capable of space travel for 50,000 years at least, and before that, you lived in space exclusively?"

"Yes."

"I have a theory, but we'll have to see if the information from your DNA confirms it."

"What do you hope to learn, woman?" Vegeta's eyes met hers.

"Well, there's the practical stuff for you, Goku, and Gohan—I'll be able to see if some human medicines will work on you, and I can get some help formulating new Saiyan medicines if we need to. Then, I can compare your genes to human ones. I want to see how much genetic distance is between the two species. It will tell me what makes a Saiyan a Saiyan, and a human a human. It might also tell me approximately when the two species split off from each other if there was a common ancestor. Holy shit! Why on _earth_ can't I write a damn paper about this! Damn it, Vegeta, you have no _idea_ how frustrating that is!" She sighed. "I might learn what gives you Saiyans an advantage when it comes to channeling energy too. In a couple hundred years, just maybe, humans will have mastered genetic modification, and I imagine that information would be very useful."

"No genetic modification will ever make a human into one of my race. Remember that." He waved his hand in disgust. "Now tell me—if you think about such high-minded things, woman, why do you conduct yourself with such uncouthness, fickleness, and impetuousness?"

Bulma processed his question for a moment. "Wait a minute. Was that a compliment?"

Vegeta laughed wildly. "Of course not."

"Whatever you say, your highness." She saucily performed a mock curtsey with her lab coat. "I might read your entire genome, but I will never understand you Saiyans. I will never know what goes on in that fucked up brain of yours. I will never really know what you are."

"I am Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans. My identity belongs to me alone."

"Right. Say—thanks for participating in this project. I appreciate it."

"I did not do this for you. I did it to learn of my race. Do not credit your feminine charms, as you surely would have done."

Bulma rolled her eyes. "Still, thanks."


	10. Dualities and Tautologies

Dr. Briefs had not yet finished recalibrating and refurbishing ship and its gravity chamber. A little over forty-eight hours had passed since Vegeta's return to Earth. He had rested from his long journey, and he had eaten his fill, and he eagerly wished to return to training. But after training under intensified gravity simulations in space for so long, he found that virtually nothing could challenge him at Earth's normal gravity. If he pushed himself to his limits, he would surely destroy more than he would have intended. Vegeta grew stifled and bored sooner than he would have liked. Only he could feel less free in a world open for roaming than in a compact space vehicle. He found himself pacing in his room like an animal.

As he rhythmically put one foot in front of the other, his mind kept wandering back to the field of space debris that had once been Planet Vegeta. He couldn't stand it. Two decades had passed, and every few weeks, he would think of something that reminded him of Frieza and what he had done; this would send Vegeta spiraling down into the oblivion of his own memory. In the earlier years, he had thought the bouts of acute anxiety signaled his undeniable insanity. However, he soon realized that the anxiety came and went with the months, and only certain things would set it off. He retained control of his mind. He no longer feared the silly things his mind and body seemed to want to do to him. He dissociated such "irrationalities" from his person.

When he had awoken from his nightmare a few nights ago, his body felt on edge, his heart racing and his skin beading with sweat. Yet his mind did not register the same anxiety that his body had; it angered him when his body rebelled. He remembered having hurled a pillow against the wall, his interior dialogue along the lines of, "_Fuck you, you miserable piece-of-shit body._" He hated so many aspects of what others would normally include in their summations of what they considered "themselves." He compartmentalized his personality—such as his body's natural reactions to stimuli—categorizing it and locking the parts he had no time for deep into his subconscious.

His father, and to a greater extent, Frieza, had taught him how to take life with as much detachment as Fate herself, and he figured that the same technique would help silence his fears and emotions, his hindrances. When he saw death on the battlefield, he could not be bothered with that one nerve in him that would snap and make him fear for his own life. When he wheezed and found his hands covered in dark, purple blood, he had no time to stare and panic over his injury. A single flinch, and you could find yourself in Hell.

Vegeta despised every mental or physical sensation that he had not self-initiated in some way. More than anything in the universe, he wished to have everything around him in his complete control, aware of absolutely everything that he might optimize his strategies to get what he wanted. Mysteries annoyed him; he needed to know _everything_. The surest way to infuriate him was to deny him.

He derived little pleasure from others' touch, for it felt strange for his body to respond to something he had not totally pre-cognized and predicted. For every ten thousand violent physical confrontations, he had but a single friendly or affectionate one, and even when he did receive that one friendly touch, it unsettled him. Touch was something you did to people to kill them. The sense of touch in general signified little more to him than _otherness_—touching made the body and mind aware of things that were not identical to itself. In a universe limited to a single tautological individual, a sense of touch would mean nothing. Sometimes, Vegeta wished he and his mind were the entire universe, something totally subject to his authority.

He did not want anything to touch him; he wanted to be unmoved, and he hated the duality between the self and the non-self. He was afraid. Anything that did not belong to him had the potential to move him, touch him, _frighten him_. And what then? Death meant a perishing of the individual and his universe, an absorption of that individual into Otherness. When the body became dust, Vegeta would become dust, and dust was not identical to that which had been Vegeta, but other than Vegeta. He wanted to be Vegeta.

He stopped pacing. Dizzily, he flopped onto his bed. He felt slightly nauseous.

This was why he hated not following his daily routine, training in particular. Inevitably, he would find himself bored, and he would scare the shit of himself. A scared little boy lived inside his head, and that little boy needed a distraction from his ruinous purpose—the usurping of Vegeta's consciousness. That little boy needed to shut the fuck up, then grow the fuck up. The universe was a shit-hole, and millions of people died in it every day; there was no need to curl up and cry as if it were some terrible thing that could never happen to poor, innocent you.

When ennui overtook him, Vegeta pleasured himself with increased frequency—a distraction. He found the act self-affirming, a reinforcement and physical expression of a tautology. Neither fancies nor fetishes participated; instead, Vegeta thought only of the delectable sensation, losing himself in it. He never understood why Nappa or Raditz felt the need for partnered dalliances—why disgrace yourself by fucking non-Saiyans when you could feel so contented alone? Had they no shame, no respect for their noble blood? Vegeta had never considered them noble anyhow. It didn't matter.

A pleased sigh ascended from deep in his throat.

Vegeta couldn't remember the last time he had eyed a live female lustfully. Perhaps he had done so in his adolescence. He had stopped even acknowledging the gender of other beings at least by his twenties. At that point, they were all just Others. Except for that Saiyan noblewoman—she had aroused him long after he had stopped looking at women.

Damn it! Now he was thinking of _that_ dreadful experience all over again. Vegeta needed the gravity chamber back immediately.


	11. Perceptions

Vegeta knocked furiously on the door to the Briefs' laboratory. "_Woman!"_

Flustered, Bulma stood from her desk and stormed to the door, and she opened it bearing a look of annoyance on her face. "What, Vegeta?"

"Has you useless father finished recalibrating the gravity chamber?"

"Seriously? You think it's okay to cause a scene just because you're impatient? And my father is _not _useless."

"Bring him to me at once!"

"Oh my _God_, Vegeta." Bulma struck her temple with her palm. "Calm down, and just ask nicely like a civilized person!"

He sputtered angrily. "It is you who are uncivilized, classless alien trash!"

"Well, insulting me certainly isn't the way to get me to do what you want. Say you're sorry, and I'll tell you where he is. I'm not going to get him for you. I'm not going to kiss your ass just because you say so, Vegeta."

Serendipitously, Dr. Briefs had heard the commotion and had come over to the laboratory entrance from his office. "Is everything all right, Bulma?"

"Yeah. Vegeta was just being a—"

"Old man! Have you finished recalibrating the gravity chamber?"

"Oh, good afternoon Vegeta. I finished a couple hours ago. I was going to tell you, but Bulma said you were resting in your room. I didn't want to disturb you." His voice carried a desperately apologetic tone.

"At long last!" Vegeta rolled his eyes. "I will leave now."

"What's gotten into you, Vegeta?" Bulma asked. "You were fine yesterday."

Refusing to acknowledge her question, he kicked the door open and pranced out of the laboratory. Thinking he couldn't hear her, Bulma went on speaking. "He's so moody sometimes, dad!"

Vegeta slowed his pace, focusing his keen hearing on her voice.

"I think he's got a lot going on right now. He has nightmares sometimes. I've heard him crying in his sleep before. I went into his room to check on him the other night—it was especially bad that time. I don't think he remembers it. I think he has anxiety issues. I wouldn't be surprised if he's depressed too." So she _had_ been in his room. His stomach turned over on itself.

"It was good of you to give him a place to stay." Dr. Briefs said after a few seconds.

"Ask him about Saiyan culture. He likes talking about that. It makes him happy—I've seen him smile. I don't think he talks to anyone but me, daddy."

"Does he have a thing for you or something?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he doesn't. I have no idea whether he even likes people at all. I think I'm just the only one who gives him the time of day. I guess nobody really has a reason to, considering he doesn't have the best reputation, if you know what I mean."

"I guess not."

"Come to think of it, though, he hasn't really caused much trouble since he's been here. I don't think he did anything but train while he was in space. But you know what's _really_ weird? _He_ contacted _me_ once while he was gone. He had the strangest look on his face—completely blank. I think he was upset about something. If you could have seen that look... I made sure to call him up a few days later. For a while, I figured kept to himself because he hated everybody. That might be part of it, I think, but there's gotta be something else to it."

"I'll make it a point to say hello a couple of times."

"Thanks, daddy."

Vegeta had gagged inwardly multiple times as he eavesdropped. He couldn't believe the woman's presumptuousness. Foolishly, she dared to assume she knew him better than he himself did. Not only that, but he now had conclusive evidence that she had invaded his privacy. He couldn't stand to listen anymore, and if the two continued their conversation, he didn't know. At least he could press the memory of it all out of his mind during a gravity simulation. Fuming, he strode at a quickened pace, eager to get outside of the building as soon as possible.

From behind him, he heard footsteps on the tiled floor. "Vegeta? I thought you'd already gone to the ship." Apparently, Bulma had begun to make her way out of the laboratory as well, and she had caught up to him while he had stopped to eavesdrop.

"Leave me alone! Your presence has impinged upon me enough already."

"I'm sorry."

Bulma followed him all the way out of the building. He spat on the ground, saying, "Clearly, you lie, woman, for you continue to harp on me. What is it that you want?" Not once did he look over his shoulder to grace her with face-to-face conversation.

"I don't want anything." She paused, deliberating. "You just don't seem yourself right now. That's all."

The Saiyan turned and glowered at her threateningly. "You do not know _me_ at all. Now _go_." His deep voice had dropped to an icy rasp, and his fingers glowed very slightly with a blue energy.

Yet Vegeta did not maintain his hostile stance for long. Suddenly, he exchanged his ominous expression for one of terror.

"What's happening?" Bulma asked, more terrified by Vegeta's abrupt change than by his former animosity.

"It's..."

"What's going on?"

Vegeta blasted himself up into the sky, shrieking the word "_Frieza_." He had sensed the characteristic massive, bleak energy signature enter the atmosphere. Kakarot had failed.


	12. Frieza Avenged

How could Kakarot have failed? He had achieved the status legendary among the Saiyan people; none could have stood against him. The dragon said he had survived Frieza and escaped, and Frieza had allegedly disintegrated in the devastation of Planet Namek. Vegeta knew the tyrant's race did not have the power of self-regeneration. Only if Kakarot had not actually killed Frieza could Frieza still draw breath. Apparently, the tyrant had not died, and he had escaped. Vegeta could only imagine why his fellow Saiyan had either mistaken Frieza for dead or, worse, had spared his life.

As he beamed through the atmosphere, heading towards the source of Frieza's dark energy, Vegeta sensed Gohan, Piccolo, Krillin, Yamcha, and the others following him to the same spot. He had not imagined it; the others had felt Frieza's immanent arrival as well. Never could Vegeta forget the precise impression the tyrant's essence made upon him—it likened to a sensation of hopeless dread, a shortness of breath, the sudden absence of warmth and oxygen. As Frieza's power would escalate and reach a critical mass, Vegeta remembered how everything in the monster's presence would seem to, like a black hole, draw even light into itself. Once he felt the consuming energy looming directly above him, his feet landed on the ground. The others met him there.

"So I'm finally going to meet this Frieza," Yamcha said.

"He's not alone," Vegeta declared soberly. "Another of his race is with him. Probably his father."

"Frieza has a father?" Gohan asked, shocked.

"Yes. His father is King Cold, ruler of most of this galaxy. Frieza is the most powerful warrior of his empire."

"Oh, a genocidal warrior prince with a grudge. Never heard of that one before," huffed Krillin.

Vegeta twitched at Krillin's comment. "He will obliterate you all, do you not understand that? And for what you said, weakling, I will delight in seeing him vaporize you—again." He cackled darkly. "I am nothing like Frieza." No one dared challenge this assertion.

The sound of a small aircraft hummed nearby. Bulma had tracked everyone down, and she landed a few yards away from where they stood. "Seriously, guys, what is going on?"

"Why are you here, Bulma? It's not safe!" Yamcha cried.

"Don't tell me what to do or where to be," she retorted. "I want to get a look at this Frieza character."

Vegeta snarled, clenching his fists. "Woman, what you have done is perhaps the most idiotic thing I have ever witnessed. Frieza will murder you slowly for his amusement's sake! Go back, you stupid female!"

Yamcha glared at the Saiyan. "You can't talk to Bulma that way!"

"Silence, fool. Your prattle will do nothing but alert Frieza of our presence if he has landed. Bulma—I highly suggest you flee this place, though it may not help you in the end." Vegeta realized in passing that he had used the woman's name. "All of us will _die_."

"Why are you even here, Saiyan scum?" Tien spat.

"Enough," Vegeta growled austerely. Why was he here? Frieza had slaughtered his father, his mother, his people. Vegeta couldn't bring himself to think about any of the things the tyrant had done to him personally.

Piccolo's voice rumbled from a few yards away. "Vegeta is right. Keep quiet, and suppress your energy. Frieza will land just beyond that ledge. We have barely more than a minute."

"Hey, Krillin, do you feel that?" Gohan asked.

"Yeah. There's somebody else. Came out of nowhere too. Doesn't feel like Frieza or his father, either."

"Do you think it's my dad?"

"I don't know, Gohan. I've never felt that kind of power from Goku."

Vegeta felt the energy as well. Its power exceeded that of Kakarot on Namek. He would have assumed that Kakarot had returned, but the energy bore a signature that he knew could not belong to him.

"Frieza has landed," Piccolo announced calmly.

"We will proceed on foot to meet him," Vegeta ordered. None disputed him.

A blinding light flashed, and the sound of a violent explosion followed it. Could Frieza have already dealt his planet-bursting blast? It made no sense for him enter the Earth's atmosphere at all, then, for he could destroy it from its orbit. Clearly, Frieza had not sensed Vegeta nor any of those accompanying him. If anything, the sudden surges and declines of power levels indicated the exchange of a battle between distinct forces.

"I see something!" shouted Gohan.

"It's Frieza! And—what? A Super Saiyan! He's not Goku!" said Krillin. "What if he needs our help?" He flexed his legs, preparing to jump into flight.

"Stay," Vegeta barked. "Hold your position until we know what we're dealing with." Focusing his eyes on the point in the sky to which Gohan had pointed, Vegeta indeed saw Frieza. Metal and circuitry seemed to make up more than half of his person, more machine now that living creature. The other figure, his body glowing with glittering aura, could be none other than a Super Saiyan. He brandished a sword, its steel hot with the Saiyan's power.

Frieza shrieked—it was a scream of unadulterated terror. The cry surprised Vegeta, but he relished it once it met his ears. How many times had the tyrant elicited such trembling cries from him? He remembered how, when he was but a child, Frieza had ordered Zarbon to torture him. Frieza had considered Vegeta too insolent, and he would have none of the little prince's overblown self-importance. After binding the boy to something like an operating table, Frieza had grinned as Zarbon injected a serum into Vegeta's neck. The chemical solution would set the blood on fire with pain, spreading to every limb and organ, including the heart and brain. Periodically, Frieza had set his hand over the boy's chest, jolting him with energy to beat his heart for him. Zarbon had strapped a mask delivering pure oxygen over the child's mouth and nose. Vegeta needed to stay alive and conscious to fully experience his agony. According to Frieza, only this could break such stubborn monkey wills, and his belief neared the truth. The young Saiyan's screams, though muffled by the oxygen mask, pierced the depths of Frieza's ship. The process would have forced anyone but Vegeta into total submission. His pride let him keep hold of his soul.

Vegeta hoped that Frieza consciously registered the telling timbre of his terrorized cries at the hand of none other than a _Saiyan_ warrior.

The Saiyan youth let his blade sing as it fended off each of Frieza's sorry attempts to strike him. Even with his new cybernetic form, Frieza had already lost. The youth's sword sliced through him at a dozen different angles, and the once mighty tyrant fell apart into cuts of blood-gushing flesh and flickering scrap metal. With a single blast of energy, the phosphorescent-haired Saiyan reduced him to dust and ashes. Vegeta shuddered in awe at the young man's perfect, efficient brutality—a true Super Saiyan if ever one lived. He couldn't believe it.

Frieza's father, King Cold, looked on slack-jawed. "My son!" he cried. The Saiyan chased after him. Vegeta could sense his fear. King Cold sought desperately for a way to stall his immanent destruction, and he admired the youth's sword. But the Saiyan would have none of it, and, at the first opportunity he had, he fired a fatal beam between the wicked emperor's ribs. As Kakarot would never have done, the youth did not heed King Cold's pleas for mercy, and he vaporized him as remorselessly and effortlessly as he had Frieza. Vegeta's heart swelled with esteem and envy.

Frieza and his father were no more. This enigmatic Super Saiyan had avenged the people of Planet Vegeta. Vegeta wondered if he had dreamed the whole ordeal or if he had lost his mind. Out of the entire Saiyan race, only he, Kakarot, and Kakarot's half-breed son remained. It did not make sense for the young man to exist. Vegeta had to know who he was. Curiosity trumped any instinct of caution, and he leaped into the air, set on finding out.


	13. Threats

His body still enveloped in light, the Saiyan youth called out to Gohan, Vegeta, and the others. "I'm going off to a place near here to meet Goku. Would you guys like to come?"

Vegeta watched him power down, and it surprised him to learn that the young man's natural hair color did not reflect his Saiyan heritage. He had heard of the odd Saiyan with deep brown or russet hair, but certainly not near-white with a purplish sheen. From what he remembered about Saiyan child development, it was not uncommon for Saiyan children to have dull blond hair that darkened dramatically as they matured. This youth, however, seemed no younger than sixteen, and if he had lighter coloring in his infancy, it should have darkened by now. Vegeta now questioned whether he was truly Saiyan at all.

"How does he know about my dad?" Gohan remarked.

"Come on—it's this way!" the young man called out again. "Goku should be arriving in a couple of hours."

"I don't know if we can trust this kid," Piccolo said, his eyes narrowed in skepticism.

"Well, he saved everyone from Frieza, if that counts for anything," Tien rebutted.

Krillin paused before speaking. "If he knows Goku from somewhere, he can't be _that _bad a guy, right?"

"Well, I'm going!" said Gohan, and he shot off towards the young man.

"I must find out who he is," Vegeta agreed. He sped on past Gohan, and the young man, seeing that everyone had decided to follow him, jumped into the air and lead them across the plateau. Vegeta noticed that Bulma still accompanied them, letting Yamcha carry her.

After about ten minutes of flight, everyone lighted down upon the dry, dusty earth. The young man reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out what resembled a cigarette case. Instead of cigarettes, however, the case held Capsule Corp. capsules. He activated one of them, and a small icebox appeared once the small cloud of carbon dioxide had dissipated. Opening the icebox, he offered everyone a cold drink.

"You have the logo of my family's company on your jacket," Bulma pointed out. "Do you work for us or something? I haven't seen you around."

"I'm just a fan of your work," he answered.

"How do you know my dad?" Gohan asked.

"I haven't actually met him. I've just heard about him, and I really want to meet him."

"You were a Super Saiyan, weren't you?" Gohan continued.

"Yes."

"What's your name?" Bulma inquired. "We have a few positions open if you're interested."

The young man shifted his eyes to the ground. "I'm afraid I can't tell you right now. I know it's strange, but you'll have to trust me."

Vegeta interjected brusquely. "You will tell us who you are, boy. There's no way you could have Saiyan blood. No Saiyan I have ever met looks like you, and Kakarot and I are the only ones left. The brat there is a half-breed, if you wish to count him. You're lying."

"I'm sorry, Vegeta, but I just can't tell you right now." As if embarrassed, the youth kept staring at his feet, and he turned his face away from Vegeta as he spoke to him.

"How do you know my name? You're up to something. You will tell me what it is." Normally, the Saiyan would have threatened the young man, but he knew, to his chagrin, that his threats would mean nothing to someone so much more powerful.

"I've heard about you too. I heard that you are one of the best fighters alive and that you are a prince. I was looking forward to meeting you too, and I'm glad that I have." Confused, Vegeta sensed no irony in his voice. It was not mere flattery, and the admiration disarmed him momentarily. Only rarely had anyone spoken positively about him.

"I _will_ find out who you are."

"You will sooner or later, I promise."

Vegeta vaguely sensed an enormous amount of energy approaching them. It was Kakarot's—he could recognize it anywhere. At least the boy had spoken truly about this, and the Saiyan prince stalked away to perch on a rock and gather his thoughts. Finally, Kakarot would return. Rightly, had he remained on Earth to await him. And to hear of his arrival from a Saiyan freak of nature such as that purple-haired boy—how could he have known? Where had he come from? Perhaps, like Gohan, the young man could be a Saiyan hybrid. It would make sense. Perhaps Nappa or Raditz had unknown love-children; it would not surprise him. Kakarot, on the other hand, had not left earth until he had headed for Namek. Unless he had fathered a child as a baby, the young man could not have descended from him. Clearly, that had not happened.

To see if he could detect any resemblance between the boy and either Nappa or Raditz, Vegeta surveyed his appearance quickly from a distance. While he did not see any immediate similarities apart from the characteristic Saiyan brown skin and deep-set eyes, he did however notice that the boy had glanced over at him when he thought he had his gaze turned elsewhere. "What are you looking at?" Vegeta growled.

"Sorry. I was just staring off into space—thinking about things."

"I consider you an enemy until you have proven otherwise." He waved his hand in dismissal.

"I'll keep that in mind."

A sonic boom shook the atmosphere, and a spark of light appeared overhead. Kakarot's energy signature drew ever closer until the pod that carried him crashed into the rock, creating a small crater. After recovering from the mild explosion, everyone rushed to the crater's edge. Vegeta remained crouched atop his perch, but he focused his sight and hearing on the site as sharply as he could. When he heard the others cheer upon seeing Kakarot emerge from his ship, he exhaled condescendingly. The softened Saiyan hadn't even defeated Frieza; he had done no more for Earth than he, Vegeta, had. What special worship did he deserve now that he did not also deserve?

And then that _boy_—that hybrid brat who could apparently transform into a Super Saiyan—_he_, of all the impossible people in the universe, had slaughtered Frieza and his father alone and effortlessly. From the legends he had heard as a child, Vegeta knew that a Super Saiyan would emerge only centuries after the previous one's death. In these last days of the Saiyan race, two Super Saiyans had emerged, and Vegeta felt a dagger of shame pierce his heart, realizing that he could not do this one last thing to bring his father—_all_ of his fathers—glory. The third-class moron and the purple-haired bastard could honor their fathers, but not him. Super Saiyan or not, Vegeta hadn't even succeeded in executing Frieza in King Vegeta's name. No—some random _boy_ with tainted blood had done it. The brat didn't know what he had done, didn't know how he had disgraced the last Prince of All Saiyans. At least he _had_ Saiyan blood; only that could console Vegeta. Frieza had died at a Saiyan's hand.

Vegeta remembered how, one night, his father, the King, had entered his chambers in the old palace. His hard, impassive face bore the slightest trace of foreboding. "Come here, my son," he had said. Silently, the young child obeyed, and his father scooped him into his arms. Vegeta balanced himself by resting one hand between the King's broad shoulders and by encircling his tail tightly around the arm that held him. Sternly, the King's eyes met those of his son.

_"You will need to pack your things. Bring only what you need."_

_"Why, father?"_

_"You are going to Frieza's ship, and you might have to stay there for a while. He wants to train you personally."_

_"No! I will not train with him. His ship is nasty. He is weak. You are stronger than him, father—I want to stay with you! You are the strongest in the universe!"_

_King Vegeta smiled. "I know. Don't worry. I will come back for you. But this is something we have to do."_

_"Why? I don't want to!"_

_"Think of it this way, Vegeta—you'll get the chance to catch Frieza off-guard! You may even get to defeat him yourself!" The King poked a few fingers into the child's belly, eliciting a squeal of surprise followed by a short fit of laughter. "Promise me that you will make Frieza bow to you one day."_

_"I promise. I swear to you, father, that I will not fail!"_

_"You never have, my son. You have made me proud." He let a quiet moment pass. "Nappa will be here to escort you to Frieza's ship in fifteen minutes. You must be ready when he comes." The King began to extricate his arm from his son's tail._

_"No!" Vegeta screamed, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Please don't!"_

_"Do as I say!" He threw the boy to the floor. "And cease your sniveling. Saiyan princes never show weakness to others. They must be strong for their people."_

_Vegeta wiped a few lone tears away, angry with himself for shedding them at all. "Father!"_

_"I must leave you." He rested his heavy hand on the door._

_"I will not stand for this! I_ hate _you!" the boy shrieked, but the King had disappeared before he had even opened his mouth._

Not until a few years had passed did Vegeta understand why his father had handed him over to Frieza. The tyrant had threatened to destroy Planet Vegeta and all of its people if the King did not relinquish his son. Knowing he could not defeat Frieza, King Vegeta surrendered. Not two weeks later, though, the Prince spied his father's pod from the depths of Frieza's station. His father had come to take him back. Yet Vegeta never saw his father after that, concluding that Frieza had done away with him. Just a few short hours later, Vegeta received the news of his homeworld's destruction. He remembered this—seeing his father's ship, then learning of Planet Vegeta's devastation. As this memory rotted in his head over the years, Vegeta slowly realized that Frieza—not an asteroid collision—had exterminated the Saiyan race, and he had likely done it in response to his father's rescue attempt. Thus, when Nappa once mused aloud his suspicion of Frieza's guilt, Vegeta shocked him by revealing that he had known all along.

Now, Frieza was dead and definitively so; the strange young man had flung his ashes into the dust of the desert. He hovered above Kakarot and his friends in a strange vehicle. After speaking with Kakarot alone, he had retrieved the vehicle from a capsule, and with a gesture of farewell, he vanished in a flash of light. Vegeta had never seen such a vehicle before.

"Vegeta!" Piccolo called.

"What, Namekian?"

"This matter concerns you. You may want to hear about it."

Out of curiosity, the Saiyan joined the others.

Loud enough for all to hear, Piccolo declared, "The young man was from the future. He told Goku that, in three years' time, two androids will arrive to threaten and all but destroy the earth. In a battle, all of us die but he and Gohan. He suggests we prepare ourselves."


	14. Homo Saiyanensis

Vegeta strained under a gravity simulation. His flesh, three hundred times heavier than outside of the gravity chamber, seemed to have no desire but peeling away from his bones. As if his throat would collapse in on itself if he did not keep air flowing through it, Vegeta panted furiously. As he calculated each movement, he simultaneously resisted strangulation with all his might. He had known that he would have no chance against Kakarot upon the Super Saiyan's immediate return. The three years set aside for training served his purposes well, and seeing Kakarot's happy, smug face only hardened his resolve. If Kakarot and the purple-haired bastard could transform, then surely he, the Prince of All Saiyans, could as well. Perhaps they had only surpassed him because they had not endured the debilitating, lifetime-long torture of Frieza. Before Vegeta had landed on Earth for the first time, Kakarot had never even heard the tyrant's name.

Vegeta heard the ship's satellite system receive a call. Bulma's face appeared on the screen, just as it had done when she had contacted him in space. "I have the results from sequencing your DNA. You're not going to believe what I found out. You should get your ass to the lab!"

Vegeta gasped for air. "Woman—you should"—he wheezed—"not break my concentration. The result could be—less than ideal."

"Maybe you're pushing yourself too hard."

Grinding his teeth, Vegeta answered, "You shouldn't—conduct yourself as if you knew what it was like to occupy—my body. You are no Saiyan."

"I can safely say now, though, that I know more about Saiyans than any other person on Earth! Again, I have the results from the sequencing. Aren't you at all curious?"

Vegeta deactivated the simulation. "Have food when I get there."

"You can't eat in the lab, your _highness_."

"Do it, woman."

"Ugh!" she signed off.

Vegeta paced as the gravity gradually normalized. While the pressure lifted, his heart rate would increase, and it shot blood through his veins with such force that he felt they might burst straight out of his body. Every so often, his nose would bleed until his blood pressure finally readjusted. In some ways, he enjoyed the sensation, feeling as if a spiritual and not just a physical burden had lifted from his shoulders. Having died once, he could accurately say that exiting the gravity chamber felt similar to returning to life.

"Woman, read me the results," he said once he entered Capsule Corp.'s laboratory. "And what have you brought me to eat?"

"You actually thought I made you dinner?" Bulma shot back.

"Of course."

"I didn't, for your information. But there's a chocolate bar on my desk if you're really that desperate."

"Chocolate?"

"It's a soft candy made out of milk and cocoa beans. It melts in your mouth."

The Saiyan fetched the chocolate bar, unwrapped it, and took a large bite. His eyes widened as he let the substance rest on his tongue. "I like this," he said.

"I know, right? Most people like chocolate. Now take a look at this." She handed him a packet of papers, each sheet with a graph printed on it. "Can you read and understand these graphs?"

Vegeta scanned the papers. "Yes."

"Okay, good. This is what they tell me. Feel free to stop and ask questions at any time." Vegeta nodded, and Bulma continued. "Humans and Saiyans do share a common ancestor. We share over ninety-nine percent of our DNA. That didn't surprise me. What did surprise me was how closely related the two species are. From the genetic information I got from you, our species shared a common ancestor no more than 80,000 Earth years ago."

Vegeta's shocked expression begged her to elaborate.

"Here, I'll prove it to you. Look at page two. That is the DNA from your Y chromosome, the DNA that makes you a man. It's passed down from father to son without any mixing with the mother's DNA. The only way for this DNA to change from generation to generation is for it to mutate. Geneticists can tell which groups of people descended from which fathers based upon the specific mutations present in their Y chromosome. For example, let's just say that you and Goku each had a different mutation in your Y chromosome. If you each had a son, a geneticist could tell which son belonged to which father because his DNA would match one and not the other. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Well, there's this thing called 'Y-chromosomal Adam.' All human males alive today have this one same mutation on their Y chromosome. This means that all of them descended from a single man and his sons. This also means that, at one point, there weren't very many humans around. Scientists believe the human population had decreased to under ten thousand people about 75,000 years ago, probably because of a global catastrophe. It was likely then that Y-chromosomal Adam, or the man from whom all living men are descended, lived. Now here's the interesting part that concerns you—_you _have the same mutation. What's more, you _lack_ some of the other very common mutations of the Y chromosome, meaning that you missed out on quite a few of the mutations from all the generations after Y-chromosomal Adam."

"Humans have only barely achieved space travel. It does not make sense that some of your ancestors left this planet over 50,000 years ago."

"No, it doesn't. The genetic data does tell me, though, that some of our ancestors _did _leave, and that they left relatively soon after the near-extinction of the race about 75,000 years ago. I have a theory: someone or something took some of us away from Earth. The same someone or something may have even _caused _the global catastrophe that almost wiped us out. _Why_ can't I publish a paper, damn it! I went ahead and wrote a paper, but it probably won't get into the journals until after I'm dead. That's so lame. This is award-winning research..."

Vegeta stared at his shoes, puzzled.

"Okay, now _I _have a question for _you_," Bulma went on. "When did Frieza start his Planet Trade Organization?"

The Saiyan shook visibly. "Hundreds of thousands of years ago, possibly. Frieza's race is unnaturally long-lived—almost immortal. Their lives often span over one hundred millennia, and sometimes even up to a million years. They can only reproduce under very specific conditions, however, so there have never been any large population of them alive at once." Vegeta paused, and his eyes darkened. His lip curled in disgust. "His race founded the Planet Trade Organization out of _boredom_. I imagine the millennia must grow insufferably dull, and at a certain point, only the destruction of solar systems amuses you."

"Really? Well, that does give us a viable candidate for the something that abducted our ancestors. But, holy shit, a _million_ years? You know, Frieza sounds a bit like Nero. He was the emperor of one of Earth's greatest empires, and, apparently, he once burned down his capital city just because he was bored."

"Frieza was much like your 'Nero,' then."

"Hey. You okay, Vegeta?"

The Saiyan let out a halfhearted laugh. "I am at least glad that I was among those descended from those abducted rather than those left behind. I have become a higher life-form and not some weakling human."

"Does it bother you? The whole thing, I mean. Does it bother you to know that your ancestors evolved on Earth? Do you believe it?"

"I cannot argue with hard evidence; it compels my belief and assent. Even so, you—and not I—are the one who should be, as you said, 'bothered.' Fate has not dealt kindly to you and your friends. Look at me and Kakarot and see what you could have been!"

Bulma sighed. "Wipe that little smirk of your face. You've got to be kidding me!"

"Bring me more chocolate, woman."

She sighed frustratedly. "I don't have any more. And you _won't_ order me around. I've spent weeks doing this research for you. Plus—get a load of this—you may not have evolved your super-special Saiyan skills at all anyway."

"What do you mean by that?"

"There's evidence of genetic modification in your genome. Look at the last page. Did Frieza's race like playing scientist for fun too? Were they into cloning and stuff like that?"

Vegeta's eyes widened as he scanned the data, surveying it multiple times. Overcome with a sudden rage, the packet of papers burst into flames and disintegrated in his hand.

"What's wrong?"

"They—he—he _tampered_ with us!" He gripped his head between his palms, the muscles of his forearms wildly tensed as if he stood poised to crush his own skull.

Bulma remained silent as she watched the distressed Saiyan, and she knelt just in front of where he sat. "Vegeta," she said, finally. "Hey, listen. I remember what you said when I asked about Saiyan origins. You said that your people ruled a fleet of ships before you colonized your first planet. That means you must have overthrown whoever tampered with you. Whoever did it is dead. You are free, and you have been for a long time. Think about it. Wasn't Frieza afraid of you? I'm guessing that whatever experiment Frieza's people did went horribly wrong, and they knew it. They couldn't control you like they wanted to." Hesitantly, she stroked the Saiyan's coarse hair.

Too busy processing what he had learned and what the female scientist had just said, Vegeta sat motionless, letting her fingers brush his forehead unhindered. Just before he had died on Namek, he had confessed to Kakarot that Frieza had made him what he was. That statement, he now realized, rang more true than he ever could have guessed. With less certainty than ever before could he distinguish between that which Frieza had created in him and that which had sprung out of his own individuality. The line between Vegeta and not-Vegeta, self and other, seemed to blur and all but disappear. Perhaps Vegeta did not exist at all, and only a conglomerate of Otherness had deceived itself into calling itself by the name of "Vegeta."

But what the woman had said was true. The Saiyan race had escaped whoever had captured and created them. According to legend, the first Super Saiyan lived and ruled over them nearly 50,000 years ago; they had lived lives of their own for tens of thousands of years, adapting to life on their own terms. Although born and bred as slaves, they never remained as such. While Frieza's people may have had the power to alter life, they would never have the power to cross over into the subjectivity of their creatures, forming their histories and desires. Not even Frieza could truly erase the boundary between self and other. Never could he or anyone extend his will and consciousness beyond the limits of his own mind. This thought brought Vegeta some degree of comfort. No matter how extensively Frieza had engineered his psychology, the tyrant would never enter Vegeta's mind, nor feel as he felt.

His feverish mind quieting at last, Vegeta felt anew the weight of Bulma's hand pressing into his hair. Removing one hand from his temple, he grabbed her wrist, looked up from the floor, and glared deep into her eyes. "You take too many liberties with me, woman," he said.

"You know what? I think I'll go get you some more chocolate, " was her only response.

**Author's Note: Do you guys like the Saiyan Origins backstory? I might be up for writing-or _co-writing!_-a shorter story about the first invasion of Earth by Frieza's race, Saiyan origins, and the first Saiyan rebellion. If you think that might be interesting, send me a message-especially if you have any interest in partnering with me on such a project!**


	15. With a Side of Eye-candy

The pale light of early dawn stretched across Vegeta's bed. A few minutes ago, just before the sun had appeared on the horizon, he had already awoken, and now he lay dozing. He had not slept well, and his joints ached with a dull weariness. He found that his overall mood had greatly improved from the evening before, however. Sleep, even if uneasy, often had that effect. As he took in a few deep breaths, deciding whether to get up or not, he caught the faint scent of singed flesh in the air. It smelled like the fried pork strips he had eaten before. In response, Vegeta's stomach growled, and he threw the sheets back, sat up, and set his feet on the carpet. Feeling particularly apathetic, he did not concern himself with putting on new clothes, choosing instead to lumber downstairs wearing the shorts in which he had slept.

Bulma greeted him upon his entrance into the kitchen. "Oh, good morning! I didn't expect you to be up for another few minutes. Whoa—"

Vegeta raised a lazy eyebrow.

"I guess you decided today was underwear day."

Vegeta ignored her wandering eyes. "I want some of those fried pork strips."

"It's called bacon. I thought I'd get up early to get you something nice for breakfast. You know, to say thanks for participating in my project. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go get dressed real quick while this finishes cooking."

Vegeta strode towards the stove and peered over Bulma's shoulder, examining the pan she held. Bulma turned her head to find her cheek inches from the Saiyan's. "What, woman?" he grumbled. "Take the flesh away from the heat. The bacon is done. You humans overcook everything."

"Fine, whatever." She turned off the stove. "Take a seat, and get yourself a plate while I go get dressed."

"I will not wait on you. Fetch the dish, and serve me now. And prepare me coffee at once. I find it most invigorating." He sat down at the small table, making it clear that he had no intention of doing as Bulma had said.

Bulma groaned. "Really, Vegeta?"

"Do I really look like I care if you wear that whorish nightdress? Now do as I said."

"Excuse me!" Bulma gaped. "You spoiled brat! You might not respect me at all, but I'm a lady, and I respect myself. You can do what you want. I'm going to get dressed whether you like it or not. I'm not afraid of you."

A spark of amusement flitted across Vegeta's eyes. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Not afraid? You are quite the fool. I can destroy planets effortlessly, saucy woman. I could make you scream for your God with the flick of a finger."

Not aware of the double meaning of his statement, the Saiyan stared confusedly when Bulma bit her lower lip, obviously holding back a bout of snickering. "At what are you laughing? You know I speak the truth," he snarled.

"You just—said that a funny way..."

Even after repeating his previous words in his head a couple times, Vegeta still could not grasp what had made them amusing. "Shut up. Bring me the bacon before I decide to show you how stupid you are not to tremble before me."

"You're kind of cute when you get all huffy. I guess Saiyans need their coffee in the morning just like everyone else. Here—just eat right out of the pan. I don't care." After placing the pan on the table, she headed for the staircase.

"No. You will make that coffee."

Bulma grinned impetuously. "I think you just want your breakfast with a side of eye-candy. Should've known."

Between furious bites, Vegeta demanded that the woman define the word "eye-candy."

"Something nice to look at. Like a woman in a 'whorish nightdress' as you so politely put it. I should have slapped you for that one, by the way."

"I would have liked to see you try." He shot her a provoking glance.

The second Vegeta lowered his eyes and resumed shoveling food into his mouth, Bulma pranced up to the Saiyan and struck him flat across the face. In a single movement too swift for her to see, Vegeta stood up and grabbed her upper arm. "I didn't think you would dare!"

"I told you I wasn't afraid. If you wanted hurt me, you'd have done it by now. I know you're just playing tough. I think I've got you figured out, mister."

"Do you now? How clever of you." Imperiously, he shoved her to the ground before reassuming his seat.

"Well, there you go. Hope you enjoyed your eye-candy. Jerk." Upon falling, Bulma's nightgown had ridden up past her thighs. Vegeta, however, had kept his eyes glued to his breakfast, and had not noticed. Bulma had already gotten to her feet and adjusted her clothes before the Saiyan finally troubled himself to glance at her.

"You're a really weird guy," she said.

Vegeta rolled his eyes condescendingly. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?"

"Do you like women?"

"What?"

"Women. Do you like them?"

Vegeta gritted his teeth. "Of course I do, vulgar bitch. What kind of insolent question is that? Do I look like some low-class scum hopeless enough to take it up the ass? I'm not Raditz."

"Wait—Goku's brother was gay? Interesting."

"Surely, he was not purely heterosexual." Vegeta put a palm to his forehead. "How the fuck did this even become a topic of conversation?"

"I'm just going to forget all the nasty things you called me, and I'm going to laugh my ass off because this is _hilarious_." Bulma proceeded to laugh. "Okay. I'm going to put on a pot of coffee, so be happy. It takes a few minutes to brew, so this time I'm actually going to go upstairs and get dressed. Here. I'll even give you these leftover rolls from dinner so you don't have anything to complain about while I'm gone. And yes, I'm coming back because I have something you might be interested in."

Once the woman left, Vegeta sighed with relief. He smothered his annoyance with a roll. The blue-headed woman had apparently thought her attire something worth his contemplation. He remembered the scanty nightgown as the same one she had worn the night he had woken up from his dream of the Saiyan noblewoman. He could never forget the distinct look of the ivory satin-like cloth that had draped the perfectly preserved curved body. It made him sick to think about it. Although he had forgotten what had transpired in his dream, his subconscious evidently remembered it as nightmarish. The fabric had skimmed across the hips of both women in a similar fashion, he suddenly realized. Just as suddenly, Vegeta realized he was mentally visualizing women—something he rarely did. It excited him more than he had anticipated, and a warm sensation rose from his groin.

"I'm back! Take a look at this." Bulma set a large hardcover book on the table.

Vegeta's stomach flipped upside down as if someone had sneaked up on and frightened him. Wordlessly, he surveyed the book in front of him. He read the title: _An Introduction to Paleoanthropology_.

"It's one of the better detailed surveys of hominid evolution I've come across. I figured you might flip through it when you weren't in your gravity room." She poured coffee into two mugs, and handed the larger of them to the Saiyan.

Trying to think of anything but women, Vegeta scanned the book's table of contents mechanically as he sipped his coffee.


	16. Foolish Emotion

Vegeta did not enjoy reading books. He had grown so accustomed to reading texts from a screen or projection that words printed on physical pages distracted him, and he found he could not absorb information as effectively. Before he had read fifty pages of _An Introduction to Paleoanthropology_, he had decided that he would request a digital copy of the book from Bulma. She had a habit of working late into the night, and Vegeta knew he could find her in the laboratory after he had taken his nightly shower. After throwing a hooded sweatshirt over his bare chest, he leaped out of his bedroom window and lighted on Capsule Corp.'s lawn. The sun's last light had just disappeared, and all stood silent. Nearby, however, Vegeta sensed Yamcha's energy approaching. Noting that the man had not cared to conceal his energy, Vegeta assumed that Yamcha had no intention of ambushing him. He slowed his pace, waiting for the other man to confront him.

"Vegeta!" Yamcha called out.

The Saiyan kept walking toward the lab, pretending not to acknowledge Yamcha.

"Hey, man, listen." He jumped in front of the Saiyan, blocking his path.

"What could you possibly have to talk about that would interest me, boy?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

Vegeta raised an eyebrow. Not wanting to betray his ignorance or confusion, he smirked, playing along with whatever assumption Yamcha seemed to have.

"All right, I guess I'll just say it then. Stay away from Bulma. We got back together. I don't want any _monkey_ business from you."

Vegeta folded his arms over his chest and snorted mockingly. "Such bold words! Are you sure you can get away with them?" He didn't know what Yamcha prattled on about, but he never walked away from a chance to put someone weaker in his proper place. Vegeta could afford the annoyance if it meant gathering more information about his environment and the actions of those around him; the more he knew, the more he could control.

"I'm not looking for a fight this time. I'm just telling you that Bulma is my girl, and you need to leave her alone."

"Of course you refuse to fight me. I wonder why that is." He sighed and began walking once more. "I will do as I please and nothing less. As for that woman—she has vexed and pestered me endlessly for months. It seems that you have failed in your endeavors to contain her—a pathetic example of masculinity indeed. I confess that I am not surprised."

"I get it, Vegeta. You're just being an ass because you can. I'm not going to fall for it and do something stupid. But I wasn't going to just sit back, say nothing, and let you have your way. I wanted you to know that what you're doing is not okay—even if I can't make you do anything differently."

Vegeta concluded that Yamcha, apparently, believed that he had some cunning design to seduce Bulma. He thought it an odd belief, for he could not think of any evidence Yamcha could possibly have to support it. If Yamcha had stealthily observed him, he would have almost certainly found him out. This encounter, in fact, was the first he had seen of the man since Frieza's arrival. Ultimately, Vegeta assumed that only an irrationality—born of jealously, most likely—could explain Yamcha's present behavior. Consequently, the Saiyan swiftly chose to dismiss Yamcha's posturing as a triviality that did not concern him in the slightest. Without responding, Vegeta quickened his stride.

"I didn't expect anything else from you, asshole," Yamcha spat bitterly as he let the Saiyan go.

Vegeta found the entrance to the laboratory unlocked. Bulma sat in front of her laptop, papers and blueprints scattered all around her. With such disorderly space and habits, the Saiyan wondered how the woman could function at all. "Woman," he said, "I demand a digital rendering of the anthropology text."

Bulma jumped visibly, sending a few scraps of notes to the floor. As she bent over in her chair to pick them up, she said, "Shit, Vegeta, I didn't hear you come in."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, but nobody's published a digital copy of that book yet. I'd buy it if there was one." After examining the sheets that had fallen, Bulma typed something into a document. She turned to Vegeta with something like an exhausted expression on her face. "You didn't by any chance happen to run into Yamcha today, did you?"

Vegeta shrugged, then smirked.

"I'm going to assume that means yes. I hope you didn't kill him. Don't mind him. He doesn't know anything about you, and he's making assumptions. He's just jealous for some stupid reason."

"Render the text into a digital format. I do not like books."

"I love the guy, but he doesn't get it sometimes."

"When will you have it done?"

"_Vegeta_! Stop with the book! I'm not going to do it. You have it, so you can read it. I'm not going to postpone my research just to make life more convenient for you. Honestly, I'm surprised you decided to read that book at all. I gave it to you just to be nice. You do realize that everyone hates you, right? I'm the only one who ever tries to talk to you, and you treat me like shit anyway! I've done nothing but reach out to you, and you do nothing but order me around and insult me. You act like a spoiled five-year-old!"

Consternation folded Vegeta's brow. He could only imagine what had provoked the woman's sudden emotional outburst. Surely, it could have nothing to do with him or his actions, he thought, for he had done nothing uncustomary or out of line with his usual character. After his patience-testing encounter with Yamcha, Bulma's snapping seemed nothing short of amusing to him. Humans and their little dramas were utterly ridiculous.

Bulma continued. "And you know what? Now Yamcha's mad at me for talking to you. I didn't do anything wrong! I thought I was doing the right thing, but _no_—you're still a prick, and Yamcha thinks I'm the worst person ever. Being me is such a thankless job!" She struck her thigh with her fist. "Stop looking at me like I just sprouted green antennae! It's not like you don't have feelings, Mr. Anxiety Issues! You're more fucked up than any of us, so just shut up! You're lucky anyone gives a damn about you. You're a worthless creep who's only here because of —_a mistake_!"

Like electricity, wrath zipped through Vegeta's veins.

Bulma abruptly fell silent as if mortified by her own words. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, Vegeta. I didn't mean to say that. I'm sorry! Please don't leave. I just had a bad day. Yamcha has a way of getting under my skin. I'm really, really, _really_ sorry! I'll see what I can do about the book, I promise."

Too enraged to reply or even to move, Vegeta merely seethed stoically. "Fuck you," he hissed, finally.

Bulma had begun to sob. "And now I've messed everything up..."

The Saiyan spun around, his right hand glowing with a livid blue aura, and he vaporized the laboratory entrance with a blast of energy, promptly storming out of the building.

"No, wait!" Bulma dashed after him. Before Vegeta could leap into the air, she threw her arms around his neck, crying into his shoulder. "I'm _sorry_! You're not a worthless mistake—you're my friend. I didn't know what I was saying. Please forgive me!"

Muttering something that sounded like "foolish emotion," the Saiyan gathered energy and shot off into the sky, causing Bulma to lose hold of him and fall backwards onto the ground.


	17. Instinct

Vegeta's Capsule Corp. ship sailed through Earth's upper atmosphere, the deep blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean stretched out below. After escaping Bulma, he had returned to his room briefly, stopping only to gather up his battle suit and armor. He had brought it with him to the ship, entered, then set course for East Africa. Lake Turkana and the Kenyan Rift Valley—places he had read of in _An Introduction to Paleoanthropology_, the cradles of hominid life—were the first locations that had come to his mind when he stood before the navigation console.

Once airborne, he initiated a gravity simulation. Rage and adrenaline wracked his nerves, and every cell in his body seemed to tremble. The extreme pressure of gravity, perhaps, would force his cells into inertia, just as chains bind the movement of flailing limbs. Vegeta dialed the simulation all the way up to four hundred times Earth's gravity, fifty degrees higher than ever before. As the weight of his own mass descended upon him, he sighed, relieved. But as soon as he had exhaled, he fought to draw air back into his lungs. Choking, he gasped, and he knew that if his diaphragm collapsed in on itself, he would suffocate. Flattened to the floor, he struggled with his own will to survive until he finally manage to regulate his breathing. His skin glistened with sweat, and his eyes watered with pain and effort. The moment he realized the pressure would not overcome him, a bestial scream of stress and victory erupted from his throat. Only a live man could stave off death.

Vegeta remembered how his comrades had always thought his training methods exceptionally unorthodox. Not infrequently, the young Prince would hear statements such as, "I think he's suicidal," "He's lucky to be alive; whatever works for you, I suppose," "I guess there's a reason he's the best," "He's lost his mind," and "It's almost like he _wants_ to die." Before Vegeta had come of age, Nappa would scold him for the extremity of his regimen, but no threat from his attendant could intimidate him more than that to which Vegeta already subjected himself on a regular basis.

_"Does it turn you on or something, you little shit?" Raditz had asked once._

_"When you have surpassed my power level, you may question my tactics," Vegeta had replied. He was fifteen years old at the time. He lay on a stretcher in the infirmary of Frieza's station, having recently awoken from a coma. The young prince had spent nearly a week in a healing chamber before regaining consciousness._

_"It's a good thing your daddy is dead. He would cry if he saw you like this," Raditz countered sarcastically. "Are you sad, little Vegeta? Life got you down? Do you want to desert us all and die like a coward? Everybody knows you do. It's so pitiful I might cry myself." The older Saiyan raised a hand to his cheek, wiping away mock-tears._

_"My father would have executed you for your insolence long ago," the young prince rasped angrily._

_Raditz snorted with cynical amusement. "Whatever. But in all seriousness, Vegeta, does it turn you on? I'll keep it in mind if you ever want to have a little fun. I like the occasional strangling myself. It's nothing to be ashamed of."_

_"Touch me, and you die. Fuck you, Raditz."_

_"You know you'd like to, little boy."_

_"Your obscenity and perversion disgrace your Saiyan blood."_

_"Damn, you're so uptight. You should laugh a little. I can only imagine how tight your asshole is. I hope you don't kill yourself before I have the chance to find out." The tone of Raditz's voice had dropped, and his sharp teeth peeked out from behind a wicked smile._

_"It seems that you, not I, are the one with a death wish." Vegeta spat at Raditz's feet. "You would not have the audacity to say such things were I at full health. I would steer clear of me in the near future if you value your life."_

_"Oh, I know! You'd beat me into oblivion. But right now, you couldn't if you tried. I'll mess with you while I can. It gets so boring between assignments. I need to entertain myself, and you're the cutest thing in a million miles." Raditz pinched the younger Saiyan's nose._

_Vegeta let the other man shake his head back and forth only to make sure his guard was down before jerking upwards and sinking his teeth into Raditz's hand. The act elicited a shriek of pain and surprise. Raditz pulled his hand away violently, leaving behind a small chunk of flesh between Vegeta's jaws. The young Saiyan then proceeded to spit the blood into Raditz's face. "I hope I don't catch some disease because of that," he growled. "Your blood tastes of bile."_

_"Go ahead and kill yourself already, brat. Do yourself and everyone else a favor."_

_"I have more to live for than you ever will, low-class filth."_

Vegeta had never wanted to die. Perhaps some frightened, young child who took up residence in his head from time to time had that desire, but that child was not Vegeta. No matter how convincingly that child disguised himself as Vegeta, he would always remain an imposter, and Vegeta refused to acknowledge him as anything but that. The true Vegeta—the strong Vegeta, the impassive warrior, the Prince of All Saiyans, the bearer of an unbroken, granite heart—he loved life. He loved the thrill of battle, the warmth of sleep, the rush of orgasm, the taste of fresh air, the beauty of the starry heavens, the perfect song of his heartbeat. Vegeta remembered how happy he was to rise up from the grave on Namek. He did not want to die. His instinct to survive had saved him that moment he lay struggling for breath on the floor of the gravity chamber. Had he wanted to die, he would have let the pressure crush him. Brushing so close to death reminded how urgently he longed to keep living.

Life could never be a mistake, Vegeta concluded. Any who thought so, by his estimation, had never lived. They had never seen starlight or learned love; they had never _died_, as he had. Even the lowliest wretch could find something of value in existence if ever he or she tried.

After landing his ship just a few hundred yards from the shores of Lake Turkana, Vegeta stepped out onto the dusty, Kenyan earth. He watched a red sun begin to rise over the glassy waters. This was the land of his earliest ancestors—the place did, in some inexplicable way, seem vaguely familiar. The ruby sky, the arid air, and the coppery dirt, coincidentally, all recalled faded memories of Planet Vegeta. After 70,000 years, a son of the Saiyan race again regarded the face of his homeland. Vegeta smiled, knowing that Frieza had never conquered this world and never would conquer it. Frieza could no more touch this world than he could reach back and touch the past that had run away forever.

Vegeta sensed the surge of a small mass of energy. A lion had leaped out from the brush and captured a large bird with its claws. From atop his ship, the Saiyan witnessed the maned cat mangle the neck of his prey. Vegeta could not shift his eyes away from the gore. Although a good fifty yards away, he felt he could see everything as if it transpired a few inches from his face.

Like the lion, Vegeta instinctually knew what it was to kill, to drink in the last moments of another's life. In a matter of seconds, thousands of memories, sensations, and emotions would flash across the victim's eyes, and Vegeta found he could almost see what the dying saw. In more ways than one, the experience held a profound beauty, one as grand and terrible as life and death themselves. The most accomplished Saiyans knew this mystery well, and they appreciated an artful execution. Humans might consider him—Vegeta, the _murderer_—nothing more than a sadistic madman, but Vegeta himself saw a delicate artistry in the torture and death he dealt both to himself and his victims alike. Life meant more to him because of it.

How breathtaking and tragic it was to watch someone die! Vegeta appreciated light all the more because he had seen darkness, its absence. He could define life with more precision after having distinguished it from death.

Bulma's blatant disrespect for him and his life had forced him to flee Capsule Corp. Her lack of understanding disgusted him, and he could have no peace of mind knowing that she could, at any time, chase him down and pry into him without authorization. More than once, she had misinterpreted him gravely. The Vegeta of her mind was a petulant, broken man, and she had said so both to Vegeta's face and to others. The Vegeta she claimed to know was a not-Vegeta; she knew nothing. To her, Vegeta was the man who constantly fought and lost battles with his inner demons, but the true Vegeta knew that he himself would never do such things. Vegeta despised associating with those that refused to affirm who he _really _was. For this reason, he found associating with himself alone both the safest and the most stimulating company he could have.

Vegeta was Vegeta, and only Vegeta knew him and the self-created tautology that compromised him. How could another dare to know him better than he knew himself? Others, by necessity, relied only upon a limited representation—a distorted reflection, a shadow—of who he was.


	18. Consolation and Reparation

Nearly a week had passed since Vegeta had arrived on the shores of Lake Turkana. He spent the better portion of his days acclimatizing his body to the simulator's higher levels of gravity. With the rest of his time, he slept or bathed in the lake's waters. Every so often, he would swim deep beneath the surface to test how long he could hold his breath. Humans, according to the research he had done on them before coming to Earth for the fist time, could only go without breathing for about three minutes. By contrast, he could last half an hour. The extreme difference, he admitted to himself, had seemed particularly strange once he had read everything his scouter's database had on the human creatures.

It had truly shocked him to learn how closely human anatomy and physiology likened to Saiyans'. Because of this, he couldn't help assenting to Bulma's request to study Saiyan genetics; he used her curiosity to sate his own. Although the fact had not surprised him, he had not anticipated ever learning that Saiyans had an extant evolutionary relative. Even so, the discovery only brought more questions to his mind. Even though some ancestor of Frieza's had fabricated at least part of what made Saiyans Saiyan, that ancestor had not altered so much that Saiyans no longer resembled their early human forebears.

Frieza's ancestor, apparently, had engineered Saiyan power with great and targeted precision. Perhaps, as Bulma had suggested, the geneticist had tampered with the brain, allowing more efficient production, channeling, and focusing of energy. Alternatively (or additionally), perhaps the geneticist had synthesized the genes involved in mass bodily transformation. Frieza's race could shape-shift, and, just maybe, one of their geneticists had imparted this ability to the Saiyan race—namely, the ability to transform into the planet-purging Great Ape. Vegeta would not put such purposes and strategies beyond Frieza.

He could envision, however, how tampering with genes geared towards transformation could inadvertently unlock transformations not purposefully created or anticipated. The Super Saiyan transformation, Vegeta thought, could have sprung out of a mutation of the genes involved in transformation.

While meditating at the bottom of Lake Turkana, Vegeta thought of the tail he had lost in battle. At the time, he had considered it a grievous affront to his person and his pride. He thought about it differently now. If some ancestor of Frieza's had synthesized that tail, he would have despised it, and he would have amputated it zealously, delighting in the pain the amputation brought. While he confessed to himself that he missed his tail intensely, imagining it as Frieza's creation helped soothe the hurt of its loss. Consequently, Vegeta convinced himself that Frieza indeed bore responsibility for the tail. It was therapeutic, and solace washed over him like the warm waters of a healing chamber. With this thought, Vegeta resurfaced.

The hot afternoon sun made Vegeta's swarthy skin gleam and the lake's face sparkle. Feeling the sunshine and breathing again made him feel somehow different, as if Lake Turkana had birthed him anew. In the deepest of senses, he was an Earthling, he realized, and he was not ashamed. If he felt ashamed of anything, he felt ashamed only of anything Frieza had created in him.

Vegeta spied his Capsule Corp. ship on the horizon. He would blast out of the lake and into the air, enter the ship, then fetch a towel to dry himself from his swimming. As he flew through the air, he noticed that the shape of his ship's silhouette seemed different. Drawing closer, he saw that someone had set up a tent beside it. Immediately, he knew that Bulma had done it. Anger surged within him, and he beamed toward the tent, landing his feet directly in front of its entrance.

"_Woman_!" he screamed savagely.

Sure enough, Bulma scrambled out of her tent, stumbling over herself.

"Explain yourself! Consider yourself fortunate, for I have had a good enough day to refrain from killing you on sight!"

Bulma took a moment to compose herself before she could answer. When she did speak, however, she said only, "Vegeta! You're naked!"

The Saiyan stuttered as if he was going to respond, but he instead blasted the earth in front of Bulma's feet. Before the dust from the small explosion could clear, he had already disappeared inside the ship. Muttering curses, he rinsed the dirt from his body before drying off and hastily throwing on a pair of shorts. Although he had planned on eating and then retiring to bed once he had returned from his swim, he instead initiated a gravity simulation. He wanted to press that woman out of his consciousness. Luckily, she did not dare to disturb him until after he had finished his gravity training.

When she pounded on the ship's hatch, Vegeta opened it, demanding an explanation for a second time.

"Um, well, I brought you an electronic version of that book. And some chocolate." She held out a reading tablet and a cardboard box filled with chocolate bars.

Vegeta clenched his fists at his sides and ground his teeth. "What do you want from me, woman? Why these bribes? Why have you come here—across the entire planet?"

Tears rose to Bulma's already puffy eyes, and Vegeta braced himself for an emotional deluge.

"I'm sorry! Yamcha and I are done for good. I thought he was going to be different this time, but he was just the same as always. He was crazy and jealous, and I knew I couldn't do it all over again. We had a bad fight. I was so mad about it that I blew up at you. And then you ran away. I didn't even know if I'd ever see you again. I cried for, like, two hours straight. I called up Yamcha, and I told him we were through—for good. I was worried about you—I tried to track down the ship. I needed to get away from everything! It all reminded me of Yamcha. It made me sad and mad at the same time. I miss Yamcha, and that pisses me off. I followed your signal with my hover car. I just really needed to get away! Please don't be mad! I'll leave you alone, I promise. I'm glad you're okay. Please don't be mad!" Her shoulders convulsed with her sobs, and she had sniffed forcefully between words.

Vegeta's mind had gone blank. For all the battles he had fought and all the strategies he had made, he had never needed nor cared to learn to deal with others' emotions—apart from beating them into silence or killing them, of course. On every one of Frieza's planet purges, he would bring an ocean's worth of tears to millions of eyes. He could read despair and hopelessness in others' eyes with great alacrity, but it had never occurred to him to do anything other than _observe_, promptly carrying on with whatever task he had in mind. This time, he had no task in mind, so he just stood at the ship's entrance, empty and unmoved.

"Give me that!" he snarled after a few moments of letting Bulma weep in silence, snatching the tablet and the box greedily.

Bulma's arms flopped to her sides apathetically. Her tears did not abate in the slightest.

Vegeta would have no more of it all, and he shut the ship's hatch in Bulma's face. He went and sat on his bed, then began to gorge himself on chocolate bars. The woman could stay in her tent for all he cared. The walls of his ship muffled outside noise quite well. He did not have to talk to her. He liked the solitude of the Kenyan Rift Valley; he wanted to stay at Lake Turkana a while longer, and no one—certainly not that woman—could become an obstacle to that end. He could always blast her off the face of the Earth if she started causing problems. Vegeta resolved to relocate his ship to the other side of the lake at dawn.


	19. Alarm Clock Musings

Vegeta awoke to the shrill tone of an alarm. He had set it to shake him out of his sleep at sunrise. As he peeled himself from the sheets, he quickly realized that his body ached with fatigue. He had trained twice as long as he had intended the previous day, after all. In addition, he had staved off hunger with chocolate instead of a proper dinner.

Bright light filtered into the ship through the main window. Immediately, Vegeta became painfully aware of the fact that the sun had risen hours before. The alarm he had set, apparently, had not sufficiently disturbed his sleep. However much he hated to admit it to himself, he had this problem constantly. He had developed the problem as a child, and it only grew worse as he matured. Nappa had to answer for him to Frieza on more than one occasion. While the gap between their power remained small, Raditz would tease the young prince about it.

Vegeta had always despised Raditz vehemently. It did not matter that the long-haired Saiyan had never exceeded the Prince's power or skill level; Raditz seemed to remember one thing only: that he was seven years Vegeta's senior. This difference, of course, mattered most while Vegeta was still a child. When Frieza had destroyed Planet Vegeta, the young prince had not yet reached six years of age. Raditz, on the other hand, had reached twelve. The relationship dynamic resembled that often seen between brothers, but entirely lacking in affection.

_"Hey. Wake up, kid." Raditz kicked the young Vegeta just above the base of his tail. "You're scouter's been screeching since the dawn of time. Make it shut the fuck up."_

_Vegeta grumbled. "Since you are so impudent as to wake me now, why did you not do it an hour ago? You would have saved yourself the annoyance of the noise, idiot."_

_"Nappa told me to let you sleep. And I sure as hell wasn't going to touch your scouter. Who knows where_ that _thing's been?"_

_The young prince rolled his eyes. He got up, and went to retrieve his armor._

_"You don't have to suit up," Raditz interrupted. "We've still got a few hours."_

_"Then why have you awoken me? I severely doubt that you did it just to do me a favor."_

_"Why do you doubt me, Your Majesty?" Raditz bowed before Vegeta with a dramatic gesture of the hand. "I live to serve you, my Prince."_

_"For what have you awoken me? I order you to tell me at once!"_

_"I've visited the next planet before. It has some decent-looking females." A slimy gleam shone from Raditz's dark eyes. "I managed to record a bit of action last time I was there. Don't you want to see?"_

_"I've seen enough of your hideous hide already." Vegeta had begun tidying his hair, moving flyaway strands from his eyes._

_"It's not about me, Vegeta. It's not like I focused the image on myself. There's no fun in that."_

_"_Bestiality_ holds no excitement for me. You disgust me, Raditz."_

_"How would you know, kid? Don't tell me you've lost your virginity already... you're what, eleven or something? And here I was thinking that you're only now just realizing you have a dick."_

_"Heed my words—you have no right to inquire into the business of your superior. I am not so naive as the child I once was—"_

_"So you _have_ done it! Really!"_

_"_Silence_! I am not so naive as the child I once was, and I will no longer stand for your insubordination. You will address me properly, and you will only speak to me unless I command it. Frieza would not mourn your loss, I assure you. He may even reward me."_

_"Shit—now I know why Nappa wanted to let you sleep. Just calm down and I'll show you the pretty ladies. I'm a nice guy."_

_Vegeta's face reddened with frustration. "Do you think of nothing but your basest urges? You are no warrior, but a common lecher. If you will not conduct yourself respectably, then at least recognize that I am not the same as you and therefore deserve your deference." The young prince had powered up and had backed Raditz into a wall._

_"Come on, Vegeta. I'm not meaning to disrespect you. I'm just trying to get you to loosen up. I think you'd be happier if you got out of your own head a bit. Life is what it is. You don't have to lock yourself in the training chamber all day just to think about how bad everything is." Although Raditz smiled and spoke softly, his eyes betrayed fear. "Don't take everything so seriously." He shrugged._

_Vegeta narrowed his eyes. "What will you have, Raditz, when you have fallen, when death catches up to you? You'll have a few tawdry memories, and none will remember you. Do you not think of your people? Your legacy? _That_ has meaning. Meaning is better than happiness, pride better than pleasantry."_

_"Nappa shoves your nose way too hard into those Saiyan legends. He only does it because your father was crazy about them. They're just a bunch of stories with fancy words in them. They don't matter anymore."_

_"Do not speak of my father." Vegeta grinned mischievously. "I will wait until I have become a Super Saiyan to kill you. That way, you will know how truly devoid of meaning your existence was. I will have become legend, and you will have remained an undisciplined fool."_

_"Sure. I'll be waiting." Raditz relaxed slightly as Vegeta powered down. "In the meantime, do you want to see the pretty ladies? Or are you afraid you'll like it and turn into an 'undisciplined fool' like me?" He sighed. "Oh, fuck it. Just look." Raditz removed his scouter from his face and held it in front of Vegeta's eye._

_"I gave you no authorization to touch me!" Before Vegeta could step back, however, he had seen what Raditz's scouter displayed. The young man's eyes widened, and his jaw slackened with shock. "What the—_fuck_. Is that—is that _Zarbon_?"_

_A violent fit of laughter had seized Raditz._

_Vegeta bolted across the room. "Raditz! Liar! Foul, obscene—!"_

_"The pretentious little prince's face turned red! This is_ legendary_. You're _legendary_, Vegeta!"_

_A blazing fist struck the older Saiyan's nose. Blood gushed into his mouth. Before he could recover, Vegeta had plowed a knee into his gut, sending him to the floor._

Vegeta smiled to himself as he remembered Raditz choking on his own blood. Nappa had intervened, preventing Raditz's dismemberment and murder. The long-haired Saiyan had not dared to provoke him again in earnest until years later, when Vegeta lay incapacitated in the infirmary. Now that he thought about it, Raditz's outlook on life did not, at least on the surface, differ so much from Kakarot's. Perhaps the similarity explained in part why Kakarot made him seethe.

Vegeta stood at his ship's navigation console, preparing to relocate to the opposite shore of the lake as he had intended. Before he initiated the launch sequence, however, he noticed that Bulma's tent no longer stood beside the ship. He could still sense her energy nearby, but she had indeed moved. The woman had some sense after all, he mused. He didn't bother relocating. Instead, he donned a pair of tight-fitting shorts suitable for swimming, and he stepped outside, looking forward to whatever comfort the warm waters had to offer his sore muscles.


	20. I Will Find You Out

Starved of oxygen, Vegeta's already aching body cried out in pain and need. Slowly, his peripheral vision darkened, and the Saiyan knew that if he did not ascend to the surface, he would lose consciousness and drown. He fought his instinct to open his mouth and fill his lungs despite the intensifying stabbing sensation in his chest. Closing his eyes and biting his tongue, he used every ounce of energy he had left to propel himself into the open air.

Vegeta gave in and inhaled at the last moment, just before he broke the surface. A mixture of water and air rushed into his throat, and he wheezed fitfully. Simultaneously, he tried to bring in air and expectorate fluid. It reminded him of rising from the earth on Namek, desperately seeking breath while spewing blood, earth, and gall. Several minutes passed before Vegeta felt he could swim towards the shore. He did not have the energy to fly.

Coincidentally, Bulma lay sunning herself on the very shore toward which Vegeta swam. From what he could tell, she had not noticed him. He contemplated wading a couple hundred yards before stepping out of the water, but ultimately, he decided against it.

The woman had followed him halfway across the planet, bearing bribes. She had done him favors, but she had made clear that she did not do them because she felt obligated to serve him. Vegeta did not believe in altruism, and he expected anything _but_ pure-hearted altruism from the conniving female. A favor, he had learned from many years of life-experience, always disguised a selfish motive. In Frieza's army, he had learned the dangers of trusting others. He would find the woman out. Mysteries annoyed him.

Vegeta purposefully emerged from the water noisily, hoping he would draw attention to himself. He shook his head, flinging moisture from his hair. Looking down at Bulma, he saw that she lay on her stomach, exposing her naked back and shoulders to the sun's rays. She must have sensed his presence, for she lifted her head and peered over her shoulder.

"Vegeta?"

"There are wild animals about. You are a fool to leave yourself so unguarded."

"Thanks for your concern, but I already thought of that. I set up an invisible electric perimeter." She held up a small device that resembled the dragon radar. "What is it, Vegeta? I'm actually surprised you're here."

"I want to know why you are here."

"I told you already. I needed to get away. I have to get back to work once the weekend is over, so I'll be gone soon."

"You don't have to leave," Vegeta said.

Bulma looked directly into the Saiyan's eyes. "What?"

"I forbid you to leave until I find out what it is you want from me. Do not think me so naive as to believe without hesitation your overly-simplistic excuses for being here. You hide much."

"And that's coming from the Prince of All Secrets," Bulma spat sarcastically. "You even keep secrets from yourself. It's kind of weird, actually. Talking to you is like playing chess. There are only a couple things you'll talk about, and there are tons of things that will end the conversation immediately if someone brings them up. It takes a feat of intelligence to keep you calm for more than five minutes. And yet I've managed to keep you around multiple times. You're not the only one who can play tactician." She smiled and batted her eyelashes. "You're getting played, Vegeta."

"Do you challenge me, woman?" The Saiyan raised an eyebrow.

"See? I ran a risk of pissing you off again by saying that just now, but because I've got you figured out, I knew you'd just think it was cute that I, as you would say it, 'had the audacity to do so.' I could tell you weren't in a bad mood. And you're after something. No need to challenge you. I've already won." Bulma bent her knees, crossed her ankles, and swung her feet back and forth behind her back.

Vegeta crossed his arms over his chest. "You think you're clever, do you? I admit I hadn't expected this from you. I assumed you would still be weeping like a lost child as you were last night. But don't think for one moment that I have forgotten to pry answers from you. You are trying to distract me."

"At least you're realizing that I'm not brainless. People think I am because I can get worked up over things, but it works out for me in the end—it gives me the element of surprise. And, yes. I've stopped crying. I just needed to get it out, and I did."

"If you are so confident, why don't you look at me when I speak to you?"

"Because I'm _topless_, Vegeta. Do you think I want tan lines? There's no way I'm sitting up and flashing you."

"If distraction is your strategy, then perhaps you will reconsider that course of action."

Bulma grinned. "Did the Prince of All Saiyans just ask to see my boobs? I can't blame him. But I thought you weren't interested in human women. Interesting!"

Vegeta glared at her angrily. "I in no way wished to imply that! I was thinking strategically from your perspective in abstract, objective terms. Again, you are presuming too much."

"Okay, I believe you. But let's see how 'abstract' and 'objective' you really are, then!" Bulma sat up, and with a clearly intentional sluggishness, she fetched her the top of her bathing suit. She faced him as she tied the straps behind her neck.

Vegeta could do nothing to avoid the spectacle. He found himself staring at the expanse of pale skin. Somehow, it did not seem so strange for him to stare. That surprised him. In spite of this, though, he had kept up his guard, and he maintained his cold, serene demeanor. He was no undisciplined fool.

"Damn, Vegeta. That was impressive." Bulma winked. "You're still speechless, though."

Vegeta's mind raced to produce a response. "I had nothing to say. It is you who are the one to speak. I have asked for answers, and I await them."

"Right." Bulma scooted to one end of her large beach towel. "Why don't you stop standing around all awkwardly and come sit down, then?" She patted the place beside her. "If you want your 'answers,' that is."

Vegeta grumbled, but he sat down in spite of himself. "You manipulate me."

Bulma put a finger to his chest. "Learned from the best."

"Do not _touch_ me!" the Saiyan growled harshly.

"Fine." She paused. "What do you want to know?"

"Why did you follow me? Why do you always find me out?"

"I know you think I've got some complicated plot, but I really don't." She inhaled deeply, then sighed. "There were several reasons, and I told you them. I wanted to get away from Yamcha. That was the first reason. I was worried about you. That's the second reason. You're my friend, and I missed having you around. That's another reason. I think that sums it up. I could try and list out every single feeling, but we'd be here forever. Gotta stop at some point—only practical."

Vegeta sat in silence for a moment. "Why do you consider me a friend? You are no friend of mine—just an annoying Earthling. You lie, in any case. You said yourself that everyone despises me. They are justified in doing so."

"You're strong, you're smart, you're good-looking, you're interesting, you're funny in your own weird way. You've got a lot to offer. You're like the only one around here other than my dad who can understand my scientific work. You're not the same guy who came to blow up the world years ago. Goku's my best friend, and he taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt. He always manages to find something good in everyone. He figured that out from the very beginning. I envy that. I'm only slowly learning how right he was. He did a good thing by letting you go. I bet nobody's really given you the benefit of the doubt before."

"Oh, so this is all based in Kakarot's foolishness? I should have known." He put a palm to his forehead. "It's all bullshit. _Despicable_. He's a joke—a _joke_. You're taunting me again."

"I'm being serious. I meant what I said. Those compliments too—that wasn't flattery. You can trust me."

The Saiyan's face darkened, and his left eye twitched involuntarily. He hissed, "_I trust no one_."

Bulma looked at him. "I know." She reached her hand out, searching for the hand he had set on the ground between them to support himself.

Vegeta anticipated her movement, and he shrank back, his speed accelerated by energy.

Bulma frowned sadly. "Okay. You found me out. I'll give you another answer. Maybe this will be the kind you were looking for. Okay." She smiled, then shifted her gaze to her feet. "I like you a little bit. I don't know if you'll see why, but that makes things extra complicated for me. I tell myself Yamcha was acting crazy—being jealous and all. He definitely took things a bit too far no matter what he thought I did, but maybe I'm just as crazy as he is. At least he had a reason for what he did; he could tell I wasn't in it with my whole heart. He said some things I really wish he didn't. It wasn't pretty. I think it still needed to happen, though. But because half of the things he said were true—even if I don't want to admit it—I second-guess myself. I sometimes wonder if us ending it was really the right thing. I feel righteous and guilty at the same time. It sucks. I don't really understand myself. Nobody really does. Realizing that is part of accepting who you are, I think. Hey."

Vegeta looked up.

"You want to know anything else?"

"I've had enough of this nonsense." He stood up and brushed his palms against his shorts as if he needed to rub away some dirt.

"You wouldn't leave unless you were satisfied with the information you got."

"I might leave if I was _annoyed_, which I am. For Frieza's sake, woman!"

"Okay. I can't make you stay. But would you mind if I take a shower in your ship later?"

"You're surrounded by water, idiot!"

"But it's _dirty_! And nothing really is the same as a clean, hot shower. Indulge a spoiled lady, will you?"

Although he threw his hands in the air and spat, he mentally agreed. Even he rinsed himself in the shower after taking a swim. "As you wish. But you will do it quickly."

"Thanks. Have a good rest of the day, Vegeta. You've been a good listener. I would only talk to a friend about those things."

"You talk _endlessly_!" the Saiyan muttered over his shoulder as he gathered energy to leap into the air and return to his ship. As he hovered above her, he noted the soft, bittersweet expression of her face. She wore next to nothing. She had made herself vulnerable, and she had done it purposefully. She had done everything purposefully. In truth, she possessed the mind of an engineer, a tactician. What she hoped to gain by laying herself bare, though, he could only guess. That was the mark of a good strategy, after all: unpredictability. He couldn't see the merit in it; exposing one's weakness to an enemy always brought defeat on the battlefield.


	21. Familiar

Hot water washed over Vegeta's eyelids as the Saiyan turned his face to the showerhead. He opened his mouth and let water dribble between his teeth and kiss his tongue. Torrid vapor weighed the air down, and Vegeta felt his sweat mingle with it.

When he turned around, facing his back to the showerhead, and opened his eyes, he glanced at his forearms. The scars that covered them seemed to stand out from his olive skin with a deeper contrast than he remembered. The sun had darkened his complexion, he realized, and his scars had bronzed unevenly. While the oldest scars resembled charcoal smudges, the newest ones retained a lighter, rosy tone. An image of Bulma's soft, ivory body flashed before his mind's eye. As far as he could recall, she bore no obvious scars. In the bright daylight, her skin had seemed to glow with a white aura, emanating brightness as does fogged glass when light shines behind it. The surface of her flesh must have felt warm—searing, even. He imagined brushing it with his fingertips, tracing a line down her arm, her heat pulsing into his core through his hand.

Vegeta put his hand to the shower wall to prop himself up. He felt lightheaded and not fully conscious. His mind seemed as hazy as the small, steam-saturated room. Without thinking, he had begun stroking himself idly, unable to remember when or how he had started. Simultaneously, he felt heavy-laden and feather-light. He seemed to hover above himself, disembodied, but at the same time, an incredible weight had descended upon his shoulders; his muscles tensed, and his weakened knees trembled. He cried out quietly beneath the strain, and he pressed his hand against the tiled wall with more and more force. Yet it was not enough.

His chest heaving, Vegeta panted between gritted teeth. He shut his eyes so tightly that a red light flashed before them. He shuddered. His arm fell to his side, and he stood still, letting the water wash away his effort. Although drowsiness set in like a powerful drug, his mind gradually began to clear. He shut the shower off, and he grabbed a towel after allowing excess water to run off his body and into the floor.

A full realization of what he had done hit Vegeta only after he had dressed himself and sat down on his bed. He had pleasured himself with the thought of a human female—an alien, a non-Saiyan, an animal, an _other_. Somehow, his father's scowl pierced his heart and chastised him. How could he, the Prince of All Saiyans, lose himself and pollute his noble blood with such a disgraceful contaminant as that? Now, his perversion screamed at him, and he knew he deserved no more honor than the likes of Raditz.

Beyond the window lay the jade face of Lake Turkana. The instant Vegeta's brain processed the landscape, something occurred to him. Something snapped. It had lain there beneath the surface for weeks already.

He need not feel so ashamed of himself. If his flesh responded to human beauty, then his flesh behaved according to its design. Not for nothing had he marked the resemblance between Saiyan and human beings; not by chance or mistake had he seen ghosts of the Saiyan noblewoman haunting Bulma in her satin nightgown. The human creatures had seemed so familiar from the very beginning, and now Vegeta knew that his species and the human one shared ancestry. In some sense, they were not two races, but _one_. A Saiyan woman would exhibit beauty in the same way a human woman would; he simply knew this to be true intuitively. Not only this, but the humans on Earth had no scars from Frieza's people carved into their DNA. Humans possessed a purity that a Saiyan never would. When human beauty had captivated him, that which made Saiyans beautiful captivated him, and it captivated him in a way that perhaps even unadulterated Saiyan beauty could not have done.

He was no pervert. He didn't care if his reasoning would seem like a hastily-constructed justification to others. He knew he was right. He knew it helped. The Prince of All Saiyans was disciplined, and his desires well-trained. On this planet and among its people, Vegeta was no alien. His blood marked him a creature of Earth, and everything was natural.

He heard a loud rapping against the hatch of his ship. Bulma had arrived to take her shower, just as she had said earlier that afternoon. The Saiyan felt anxious shivers run from the top of his neck to the base of his spine. He did _not_ want to look at the woman right now. However well he had justified his latest realization, the complexity of his feelings on the matter had not simplified or subsided to a comfortable degree. He paced in a circle for a moment before he went to open the hatch. He swore he could hear the woman's muffled shouts of annoyance at the delay.

Bulma's smiling face greeted him. She had slung a bag over her back, and she held one of its straps in her hand. "Shower time!" she said, cheerfully. She put one foot forward, expecting Vegeta to stand aside, but he remained motionless. "What's the hold up? And look at your face! So adorably grumpy. You gonna let me in?"

Tersely, he muttered, "Do not test my patience." He turned his back to her and headed toward the ship's kitchen, proceeding to bury his nose in the refrigerator.

Passing him on her way to the bathroom, she said, "I'll be quick. I brought a change of clothes and my own towel." She reached into her bag and pulled something out. "But before I get in, could you put these in the fridge to stay cold? It's beer. It's only good if it stays nice and cold. You'll like it. You haven't had it before, right?"

"I don't care."

"Ugh. Just move!" She shoved his shoulder with one hand to gain access to the refrigerator. Naturally, her shove did not move him in the slightest, but she had wedged herself in nonetheless. "Jerk."

"Get out of my sight." He had spoken the words from the back of his throat, giving them a feral rasp.

"I don't know what got you so sulky all of a sudden. Chill out!" She did not wait for a response, and she shut the bathroom door.

Vegeta sighed with something like relief. He forced a large sandwich down before leaving the kitchen. As he decided what to do with his time, he paced. Ultimately, he figured he would feel more at peace outside of the capsule ship than inside of it. He exited, then crouched in the dust beneath the hull.

Minute after minute passed, and he watched the sun set behind the lake. Some might call it beautiful, he thought, but he had had enough of the dreadful place. He would return to Capsule Corp. the next day; he wanted nothing more than the comfort of his strict daily routine. This desert land did not have enough safe, closed spaces—no secluded, shadowed corners, nowhere to perch and keep watch over all below. Only his ship provided an enclosed space small enough for him to know every bolt and wire. The chill of a cold wall resting against the shoulders came with the assurance that none could stalk up behind and force a dagger between them. Vegeta liked walls.

He leaned his back against one of the capsule ship's legs. He hoped the woman in the shower would simply leave him alone and return to her tent once she had finished. The Saiyan knew that she would find him only if she went looking. In spite of everything, however, he guessed intuitively that she _would_ go looking. She had not brought along drinks for nothing; she had every intention of bribing and prying again. Before he could scan his surroundings for a better escape, though, he already heard the snap of the ship's hatch striking the earth.

"Vegeta! Where are you?"

The Saiyan watched her feet stride around the ship.

"Hey! There you are. Here—try this." Bulma had popped the cap off a bottle of beer, and extended it toward Vegeta's hand.

Thoughts whizzed around wildly in his head. He snatched Bulma's offering, then drained it within a few seconds. Perhaps she would not stay if he had no drink to share with her. Once he felt the aftertaste of his beverage, though, his eyes widened. "This drink is alcoholic!"

"You had alcohol in space?" Bulma asked, curious.

"You are trying to drug me! " Vegeta snarled angrily. "You will fail. This is hardly enough of the substance. I'm surprised I even tasted it. The Saiyan metabolism withstands such poison quite effectively. What are you planning, you traitorous harlot?"

"You've got to be kidding me! I wasn't trying to get you drunk. Hell _no_! I knew there was no way that would do anything to you. Talk about biting the hand that feeds—Goddamn! Seriously—I just thought you might like it. Now apologize."

Vegeta laughed ironically.

"What the fuck? Are you crazy? What could I possibly do to a Saiyan anyway? They're like indestructible or something. And we kind of need you to save the world from those stupid androids, you know. Maybe I just wanted to enjoy my vacation by sitting and having a drink with a friend. Is that so weird? I came all the way to fucking Africa, and I'm going to have a good time!" Bulma sat down beside the Saiyan rebelliously.

With a nearly pure hatred, Vegeta glared at her. He admitted to himself that, unless the woman were exceptionally unintelligent (and he knew she wasn't), she would not have intended to drug him. He had no idea as to her true intentions apart from what she had said, however. Vegeta did not feel in control, and that made him fume. He couldn't stand to look at the woman; she wore revealing clothing, and he wanted nothing less at this particular moment than to notice.

Bulma had begun giggling.

"Do you have a death wish, woman?"

"It's just... _your face_. I didn't know a person could look _that_ mad."

"Would you laugh at my fury if it descended upon you?" Vegeta's right hand sparked with energy.

Bulma seemed unafraid. "Everything's okay, Vegeta. Don't lose your head." She spoke softly.

He released the ball of energy he had formed into the distance. A small explosion echoed in the atmosphere a few seconds later. Freeing his body of that energy, at least, had calmed his tension somewhat.

"Really. I wasn't trying to do anything funny."

The Saiyan let a moment pass.

"I'll remember that alcohol is a no-go for you—don't worry." Pausing for a moment, she watched Vegeta, seemingly assuring herself that he posed no immediate threat. "Wanna hear something interesting? Listen. I had my first suspicions about Saiyans sharing a common ancestor when I saw the facial expressions you made. I don't count Goku because he grew up on Earth and all, but I thought it was weird that a Saiyan like you smiled and made angry eyes the same way a human would. Babies smile and stuff too; facial expressions are part of our genetic programming. Weird, isn't it? I could tell what you were feeling by the faces you made. The emotions seemed so _familiar_, and I was like, 'There's gotta be something going on here!' What do you think about that? You ever noticed anything different about humans?"

The thought had never occurred to Vegeta. He had taken the familiarity of human emotional expression for granted. "Humans are a bunch of wide-grinning idiots," the Saiyan said, finally, eying Bulma's disarming smile.

"Do Saiyans kiss each other? Or is that just a human thing?"

Vegeta glanced at her shapely red lips. He felt the loss of his mind was immanent. Someone else had taken hold of his consciousness, and he did not belong to himself. "_Bulma_. Do you not see that I want to be left _alone_? I want no more of your insolent prying."

"I bet they do. It would be weird if they didn't, actually."

He lost control. In less than an instant, his hand circled Bulma's throat. She screamed piercingly.

"Let go! Please—don't hurt me!"

Vegeta forced his mouth onto hers. Immediately, Bulma stopped struggling, and she froze. Her lips hung partially open, and Vegeta pressed his tongue between them.

"Vegeta!" she murmured. She clawed at the hand that gripped her neck.

Her taste drove him even more wild, as if the light of a thousand moons pierced his skin and enflamed his blood with their radiation. He thought nothing; his mind had left him. Anything he would have identified as Vegeta had disappeared, and he had become one with the sensation of Bulma's lips brushing his.

"Vegeta!" she shrieked the second he left her mouth to inhale deeply. "Please—this is really sudden!"

He silenced her, simultaneously tightening his grip around her throat and burying his teeth into her lower lip. Beneath his palm, he could feel Bulma fight to draw in enough air, and the sting of her nails in his flesh intensified. Too distracted to sense it, she had lifted one hand away from her neck. With this free hand, she extended two fingers and shoved them into one of his eyes with as much strength as she could muster. Vegeta grunted in response to the pain and surprise, jerking backward and hiding his injured eye behind his elbow.

The ache reminded him of where and who he was. Needles of ice seemed to puncture his gut.

"What in the world was _that_?" Bulma rasped.

"Leave me! I am not myself! I am not myself!"

She did not argue, and she fled.

Before he could think, Vegeta had entered the ship and initiated the launch sequence.


	22. Harden Your Heart

**WARNING: This chapter contains content that may be disturbing to some readers. Discretion is advised. The chapters following this one will make sense without its added context. All a reader needs to know is that Vegeta suffers an anxiety attack and relives a past experience.**

* * *

Intense pressure flattened Vegeta to the floor. He had begun a simulation set at four hundred times Earth's gravity, and although he had experienced such force before, he couldn't catch his breath for some unknown reason. His heart pounded against his ribs, beating so rapidly and erratically that he couldn't focus on any one thought or action for more than a few seconds. He didn't know why, but he was in terror. Everything surrounding him seemed unreal, as if each visible object stood as an imposter of the real one it concealed. When Vegeta looked at his hands, they did not seem to belong to him, and he felt strangely disembodied, divorced from himself. Despite watching his fingers tremble right before his eyes, he somehow floated above himself, looking down at his crushed body from the outside.

Surely, he had finally lost his sanity. He could not move, and sobs suffocated him. Perhaps he would die. That thought did not aid in slowing his thundering heart. Resigned to whatever Fate might bring, Vegeta ceased struggling, shut his eyes, and waited to lose consciousness. He would prefer anything over this waking nightmare.

When he opened his eyes, he found a frigid, purple sky flying overhead. He had just stepped out of a Saiyan space pod, and he stood on the landing platform at the foot of Frieza's palace. White towers pierced the wispy, crystalline clouds like icicles growing straight up from the bedrock. Vegeta knew this place well. He had just returned from a planet purge, and he intended to report to Frieza and receive his next assignment. This was no dream, for when he saw his young face faintly reflected in the gleaming marble floor, he realized that time had turned back, and he now relived a moment from his memory. What had transported him there he did not know.

_Zarbon met him at the palace gate to escort him to Frieza. "Welcome back, Prince Vegeta," he said, nodding his head._

"_Do not barrage me with pleasantries. Take me to Lord Frieza at once."_

"_I see your manners have not improved with the years, young prince." Zarbon gave Vegeta time to respond, but the young Saiyan did not. "But it's no concern of mine. Master Frieza will one day tire of you."_

_Vegeta scowled in silence, staring straight ahead as he followed the twisted corridor to Frieza's private chambers. Along the walls, Frieza had hung all manner of paintings, sculptures, trappings, and trophies. Vegeta detested every single one of them, for he knew that each artifact belonged to a planet the tyrant had destroyed. Preserved in a luminescent blue liquid, a Saiyan's tail lay on display inside a glass reliquary. Leftover blood discolored and darkened the fluid that surrounded the tail's base._

_Zarbon stopped at the doorway. "You may proceed. Lord Frieza has requested a private audience with you. I will await you here." His eyes beamed with a wicked brilliance._

_Vegeta entered, and the door slid shut behind him. Frieza stood before the wide window that overlooked the palace grounds. He peered over his shoulder, and addressed the young Saiyan cordially. "Prince Vegeta, my child, you have grown up! Remind me—how long have you been away? Come here." He extended an arm._

_Vegeta strode forward, then knelt. "The planet is yours, Lord Frieza. I cleared it in thirty-six hours. The return journey took longer than expected. The wormhole bridge had closed during my time aground due to a supernova. By your counting, I have been absent five years."_

"_That long? Stand up. I have missed you." Frieza embraced the young man tenderly. "You have done well." He brushed the claws of one hand ever so lightly across Vegeta's spine. The tyrant's skin was cold and smooth, glass-like with tiny scales._

"_May I request a new assignment, my Lord?"_

"_You must wait. You have missed out on much while you have been gone. Take a seat over there, beside my chair. I will speak with you."_

"_Yes, Lord Frieza." The young prince sat down on the footstool set up for him._

_After pouring himself a glass of wine, Frieza set himself beside Vegeta, resting one hand on the boy's shoulder and curling his long tail behind him. "Tell me, Vegeta—I'm curious—tell me what gives you meaning in this life of yours. Answer truthfully. You will... disappoint me otherwise."_

"_My people give me meaning. I live for their legacy."_

"_Your people are dead."_

"_I am my people. I live for myself."_

"_An illusion of grandeur. He thinks he's the whole universe. What a _small_ universe his must be—small and petty. And he speaks so vaguely. How insipidly boring," Frieza sighed. "Do you miss your father, little prince?"_

_Vegeta's eyes twitched. "I do not."_

"_You lie, but it doesn't matter." Frieza waved his hand dismissively. "I don't think I've ever seen you cry, Vegeta. When was the last time you cried?"_

"_A Saiyan prince does not show weakness. He must be strong for his people."_

"_Right—that nonsense. You recite it flatly like a recording. I like that nonsense, though. Saiyan philosophy wasn't half bad. It's a shame they're _all dead._ What's the point of letting the universe affect you, after all? It's all meaningless, and anyone who believes differently is fooling himself. Do you agree, Vegeta?" Frieza bore into the Prince's eyes with his own._

"_I do not know, Lord Frieza."_

"_Then let me convince you." Frieza sipped from his glass. "As I reckon it, I my life has lasted me these past 51,347 years. After my first ten thousand, I had seen every star in this galaxy. It all grew so dull. A sun explodes, a sun is born, a sun collapses in on itself and becomes a black hole. It's tiresome. It's been done before. I've seen nearly everything there is to see in this dimension, and the more I saw, the more I realized it was all the same—redundant. There is but one thing left to do in such a situation. Do you know what it is?"_

"_I do not, Lord Frieza."_

"_It is _to destroy_—to take all of those boring things in the universe and make them go away, and make them go away with beautiful style. To turn everything into the nothingness it really is; to twist it and see how it much it takes to break it. In the beginning, the universe was nothing, and to nothing it shall return. This is why it was wise of the Saiyans to harden their hearts—because a heart is nothing, and everything that hearts feel is nothing, and anything that affects hearts is also nothing. What are your people and their legends now, Vegeta? They are nothing, as they always have been. You are right not to mourn them. Delight in the truth." Frieza smiled and lifted his wine to his nose, inhaling its aroma._

_Vegeta had listened stoically, knowing that he could do nothing. Whether he reacted emotionally or maintained his impassivity, Frieza would delight in it. Either way, Frieza would get what he desired—Vegeta's destruction. Should the boy lash out, Frieza would torture him, and should he further calcify his heart, Frieza would smile and know that he had successfully twisted the boy into the slave of destruction he so loved. Whether through torture or through silence, Vegeta would find his heart frozen. Frieza had calculated this, and Vegeta seethed with the realization._

"_This is why I love you, Vegeta—you are so _hard_, so ruthless!" Frieza held Vegeta's jaw in his hand and stroked the Saiyan's cheek with his thumb._

_The chill of Frieza's claw left a trail of numbness in its wake. "I am honored by your favor, Lord Frieza," the young man said._

"_You didn't know it, but I monitored your purge those months ago. I saw something rather interesting through your scouter's eye. Do you know what I'm referring to?"_

_Vegeta's heart skipped a beat, but he showed no shock. "I completed the task set before me as you requested, my Lord, and I completed it in half the expected time."_

"_Yes, that was very nice of you, little prince, but I was referring to your encounter with a certain female creature on that planet. Do you remember her?"_

"_Yes." Vegeta swallowed, hoping to loosen his tightening throat. "I remember."_

"_Tell me what happened. I will know if you try to deceive me, for I saw everything. Spare me no detail. I want to know what was going through that monkey mind of yours." Frieza rested one elbow on the arm of his chair, then supported his head with one fist._

_Vegeta's heart raced._

"_Do not make me wait, Vegeta. I have a galaxy to command."_

"_I had just disposed of a larger-than-average civilization center. A female creature had—survived the blast. Nappa tried to hold me back. He said the killing had set off my nerves, and I needed to compose myself. You must have heard that."_

"_Yes, I did. Good—you seem to be leaving nothing out. Go on. Paint me pictures with your words. I want to hear poetry."_

"_I struck Nappa for opposing me, and I pursued the female. I caught her in my arms. The blast had vaporized everyone else instantaneously, and I wanted to see blood. I like to see blood. I don't know why. Sometimes I injure myself just to see the blood. I go numb, and I like it—"_

"_Oh! Fantastic, Vegeta! You're opening up, just as I wanted. Carry on."_

_Vegeta closed his eyes, pretending that none could hear him but himself. He could not avoid this. "The girl screamed. The blast had burned away her clothing. Burns were all over her naked body, and her skin glistened with blood and crystalline ash. I don't know where it came from, but I felt lust. I—I—I'd never felt like that before. It made me—crazy. She kept screaming—begging for mercy. She knew I was going to kill her. My head hurt. I told her to shut her mouth. She didn't; she knew I'd kill her anyway. So I broke her jaw. That shut her up except for some sobs. Then Nappa grabbed my tail, and he tried to pull me away. I blasted him. Raditz was laughing at my erection, so I—blasted him too. Then I—" Vegeta inhaled sharply, and his exhale brought with it a fit of weeping, his shoulders convulsing with the force of it._

"_No, the Saiyan Prince is crying! Don't cry, Vegeta." Frieza hugged the trembling young man to his chest, and ran his fingers through the fluffy hair at the top of his neck. "You can tell Lord Frieza. It's all right." He struck his tail against the floor. "Finish it," he whispered harshly._

_Vegeta felt the wetness of his tears pool up against Frieza's slick breastplate. Biting his lower lip, he mustered up the will to do as Frieza had demanded. "Then—I—her... She couldn't—close her mouth. I was out of control. Delirious. I picked her up by her neck"—he sobbed for a few seconds—"and I fucked her throat. I—I—was a—virgin, but I knew what to do. She got _blood_ all over me—blood. Disgusting, so I... snapped her neck. But she wasn't dead. Nappa grabbed my waist and dragged me away. I was weakened. I was—in another dimension. He killed her, then he knocked me unconscious. I don't remember any more!" Vegeta pounded his fist on Frieza's chest. "I don't remember any more!"_

_Frieza shoved the young Saiyan away, and he fell from his footstool onto the ground. Helplessly, Vegeta lay there whimpering in a heap. Frieza stood up, then rolled Vegeta over onto his back with his foot. He looked down, and said, "While I admire the brutality of your actions, young man, you nevertheless lost control of yourself. You were in a rage, a passion. You must remain level-headed. Didn't your father teach you that, Saiyan? Maybe not. I saw him lose his composure on more than one occasion, the undisciplined fool. Well, then. If he didn't teach you, then learn it now. A warrior is detached—even from the rush of slaughter. You must always feel _nothing_, for that is all there is in this universe—nothingness." Frieza poured what little wine remained in his glass out onto Vegeta's forehead, right between the eyes. "Think about it, Vegeta. What is innocence anyway? It's the absence of action, a privation, a word we use to describe purity and nothingness. What you did to that innocent was precisely equivalent to doing nothing, because an innocent has nothing to distinguish her from the void of space. There is nothing to cry about, Vegeta. You should not have lost control. Do not do it again."_

_When Vegeta tried to open his eyes, the acidity of Frieza's wine stung them._

_Frieza resumed his seat. "When you are done sniveling, you may go. Zarbon will escort you to your quarters."_

_Defiantly, the young Saiyan tried to suppress his tears as quickly as possible. He yearned for nothing more than to distance himself from Frieza as far as he could. He wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his battle suit, although he could still feel the stickiness of residual wine and salted tears on his skin. Like a wounded animal, Vegeta stalked away to the door. He shielded his face from Zarbon when he met him once again, and he made sure to walk behind him as they retraced their steps through the corridor. Luckily, Zarbon did not dare to say anything._

_When Vegeta entered the room Frieza had designated to him, he hesitated. Laid out before him, he saw a feast, plentiful to the point of superfluity even by Saiyan estimation. Vegeta could do nothing but gawk at it all for a moment. A beep from his scouter interrupted his survey, however._

_Frieza's voice followed the tone. "You have found your quarters by now, Vegeta. What you see is a reward for a job well done. You will also find one million credits deposited into your account for you to deal out as you see fit. Once this transmission has ended, your scouter will display and record the coordinates for your next assignment. I chose it especially for you, Vegeta." A second beep ended the transmission._

_Raditz appeared from an adjacent room. "How the fuck did you pull this one, Prince? What did you do?"_

"_Silence, Raditz. I'm going to bed. You will die should you disturb me." And go to bed he did, not bothering to touch the food before he went. He fell asleep almost immediately._

When he opened his eyes, Vegeta found himself on the floor of the capsule ship's gravity chamber. He could not estimate how long he had lain there, but he saw that he had not moved from where he last remembered lying. Surprised by the ease with which he got up, he realized that someone had shut off the gravity simulation. When he looked out the window, he surveyed the lawn of Capsule Corp. It looked to be about noon with the way the sun shone overhead. He remembered leaving Lake Turkana in the evening; if the sun had not risen more than once, approximately twelve hours had passed.

Vegeta paced. Whatever fever had come over him had subsided. He was himself again. The equation of his identity had balanced out and reached equilibrium, and again he became tautological. Nothing remained for him to do but forget the whole ordeal and resume his established routine.

He approached the console of the gravity simulator. He found a piece of paper taped over the command screen.


	23. Broken

Vegeta pulled the sheet of paper off of the gravity simulator's command screen. Without a second thought, he knew Bulma had left it. Apparently, she had managed not only to break into the ship unnoticed, but also to abort the gravity simulation from outside. Vegeta decided to grace her typed note with his eyes out of sheer curiosity.

_Hey, Vegeta,_ it read. _I left Africa a couple hours after you did. When I got back, I went to see if your ship was in its usual spot like I figured it would be. Sure enough, it was there. I peeked inside one of the windows just to check on you. I wasn't going to bother you—I promise. I realize now that you need to be alone sometimes. When I looked in the window, though, I saw that you were lying on the floor and not moving. I'll be honest and tell you that it scared me. I went in and got my dad to initiate an emergency shutdown while I worked on unlocking the hatch. The entire time, you didn't move once. I got in there the second my dad said that he was one hundred percent sure the gravity had normalized. Luckily, you were still breathing, and you were just passed out. I can't guess how much you'll remember about all of this, so that's why I'm telling you._

_We decided it was best not to mess with you, so we didn't. You didn't seem to have any new injuries, and your vitals all seemed normal after a quick test. I figured you'd just worn yourself out training, and you'd fallen asleep or something. After my dad and I left, I took a nap. I'd stayed up all night, not to mention the jet lag. My mom said you were still passed out after I woke up. She decided to start cooking a whole bunch of food for you, so you can come to the dining room whenever you feel like it once you're up. She gets really worried about you for some reason; it's kind of funny. I swear—she's making enough to feed an army. I brought my laptop to the kitchen to keep her company while I wrote my note._

_I'm just going to hope you read this instead of vaporizing it, because, let's be honest here, we've got some things we need to set straight. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't let me get away with bringing it up in person. Plus, this way, you can read this on your own time, and I don't have to get all up in your space. We all know how much you hate that. Let's see how this indirect communication thing goes—definitely not my weapon of choice. I'm an engineer, not a writer._

_Anyway, about what happened that last night. I really should have let you be. I was too caught up in my own agenda that I didn't realize you were having some problems. You were on edge, but I just ignored that. I can be selfish sometimes, but at least I know that. Life has spoiled me rotten. I still have no idea what you got you so jumpy, though. You don't have to tell me if you're not comfortable with it. You seriously looked like you were about to have a panic attack. Do you know what that is?_

_I'll admit that I was pretty mad about what you did for a while. Totally pissed, in fact. I stayed mad until I realized you had been mad at yourself. You were just as surprised as I was. You were just as eager to get out of the whole thing. It still hurt me, though, and it'll take a bit of time for it to heal. I don't expect you to apologize, but you should at least know how I feel. Maybe somewhere buried deep inside that brain of yours, you do actually give even the tiniest shit. Here's me taking that chance._

_Well, while all that does help me start forgiving you (whether you outright apologize or not), it doesn't help me understand you. I have no fucking clue what you think of me. Maybe you don't either, now that I think about it. I do know that I'm the only person you'll talk to at all, and I don't know if that's because of you or me. I get the feeling you're the type who'd just take something if he wanted it. My guess, then, is that it's more me than you. You've sought me out a couple times, but it was usually only when you wanted something specific. I don't know. You're from a completely different world, literally. Great—now I'm rambling._

_Anyway, there's a few more things I want to address. First, I want you to know that you can still talk to me. I'm not going to shut you out. I feel like that would be really wrong of me, especially considering the fact that you would pretty much have no one you could talk to. I'll be bold and say that I think that you need somebody you can talk to. Even somebody as dense as Goku could see that you've got a lot on your mind. I want you to know that I'm a safe person, and you can talk to me._

_The second thing is this. There are some human therapeutic and medicinal techniques that could probably work just as well for Saiyans as they do for humans. Lots of people get help with psychological struggles, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's the same as bandaging a cut or splinting a broken bone. If you're interested in seeing what can be done for you, just ask. This is the first and last time I'm going to bring this up, because I just know even mentioning this will piss you off. But the offer's there. Try not to reject the idea immediately. Maybe getting some things off your chest will help you focus better on your training, for example. I know I can't get any work done while I'm stressed out. This isn't me just being a bleeding heart wanting to help the poor, lost Saiyan. This is practical, and this is business. I'm convinced that bodies and brains, at the bottom of it all, are just like machines, and machines can be fixed, upgraded, streamlined, and made more efficient. Come on—that analogy has got to appeal to you at least a little bit._

_One last thing. Please, please, _please_ try to be reasonable with your training regimen. We need you to stay in good health to, you know, prevent the apocalypse, if that means anything to you. That, and I really have no pressing desire to find you half-dead—or worse—on the floor again. It was really unnerving, and it's an experience I don't want to repeat. I don't even want to think about how my mom would react. I'm sure there are ways other than killing yourself to test your limits. I have a suspicion that you think hurting yourself is good for you somehow. But think about it, Vegeta, is it really all that logical? It doesn't sound like the best strategy to me._

_Well, that's that. I hope you read this far. My rambling probably didn't help you get through it. I'm not going into the office this week, as most of the work that I need to get done I have to do in my lab. You can find me there most of the time. See you later, Vegeta._

Bulma had typed her name at the bottom of the page. Once Vegeta's eyes had run across the signature, he crumpled the paper in his hands, then dispatched it with a flare of energy. Correctly had the woman guessed that her words would infuriate him. He could only wonder what had compelled him to read it to the last word. Ultimately, he blamed it on his hatred of the unknown. At least she had seemed to imply that she would no longer pursue him with her former zeal. He had had enough of her distractions.

She thought that she was so intelligent, that she had all the answers and all the solutions. None could rival her arrogance and presumptuousness, Vegeta thought. As far as he could tell, the woman considered him no more than a broken device fit for her tinkering.

First, he was no device; second, he was not broken. Not even Frieza could destroy him, break his will. If twenty-five years of slavery and humiliation could not rob him of his individuality, then nothing could. If he could preserve his dignity in spite of the grievous insult that was Kakarot's lowly existence, then he could never lose that dignity. If he had lost his pride, if Frieza or Kakarot had broken him, then he did not deserve to live. Let the broken lie, he spat internally; repairs did nothing but waste time and energy.

Defiantly, Vegeta initiated a gravity simulation set at four hundred and twenty-five times Earth's gravity. He laughed to himself as pressure descended upon his shoulders. Here he was, standing and laughing in spite of the immense weight every atom in his body had taken on. Could a broken man make Kakarot's training at one hundred times normal gravity look leisurely? Not only could Vegeta stand, but adrenaline gave him the strength to fight. The challenge sent a jolt through every nerve. He ordered the attack simulators to fire at him with increased intensity and velocity.

Using nearly all of his energy to prevent himself from collapsing, Vegeta knew that, if a laser struck a vital area, the shot might very well prove fatal. He could rely on none of his power reserves to deflect energy should it come into contact with him. Although this fact bared itself at the forefront of his thoughts, he felt nothing. He had died before; it was nothing new. Fearing for his life would give him no advantage. Only indifference could serve him now.

A searing pain erupted just above his left ear, and blood began to stream down his face and into his eye. A beam of energy had grazed him, and he had dodged it with little time to spare. Frustrated, he realized that he had no opportunity to wipe the blood away and clear his vision. Unless he disengaged the attack simulators, he would have to defend himself while blind on one side.

Another beam sliced open the skin and damaged the tendons behind his knee. He tripped, and he then found himself unable to rise from his kneeling position. Even if he had wanted to reprogram the simulation, he could not have reached it. Out of desperation, he formed what energy he had into a ball, and he released it, not caring where it hit or what results might come. A flash—and then he saw and felt nothing.


	24. Infiltration

A stabbing pain in his chest stirred Vegeta from unconsciousness. With every breath, he felt agony's grip and release, and he soon understood that he had broken at least several ribs. Although no longer under intensified gravity, pressure weighed down on him from above. The weight came from a layer of rubble spread out on top of him, he realized. His mouth tasted of blood and dust, and he could not open his eyes without them burning.

A distressed voice called out to him. "Vegeta! What did you do to yourself? Please don't be—" a sob replaced the last word.

Vegeta heard the shifting of rubble above him. Fighting against his nearly debilitating pain, he began to force himself out from under the debris. He felt as if someone had wrestled him back into the grave on Namek, yet when he arose this time, he sensed his life vanishing away rather than returning to him. The whole ordeal seemed a backwards repetition of his resurrection.

Bulma gasped. "Oh my God! You're hurt! Are you okay?"

It was that woman again. She had taken hold of his arm in attempt to help him rise. "Of course I am! I'm a Saiyan. Pain is—nothing to me. Let go!" The moment he tried to straighten his posture, he flinched, and he folded in on himself, gripping his side with a tormented whimper. Hot blood poured over his hand, flowing rhythmically in tandem with his labored heartbeat. His aching legs could not balance his hunched frame, and he collapsed. Still clutching his side, he had not broken his fall with his arms. He cried out pitifully when his back collided with the cluttered ground, bits of rubble jabbing into his fractured ribs.

Climbing over the ruins, Bulma rushed to Vegeta's aid. "Are you crazy? You could've destroyed my house!" Her tone wavered between fury and despair. "What did you think you were doing? Why, Vegeta?" She wedged one hand behind his neck, and she propped him up in her arms. Lifting her free hand to his face, she began lightly wiping away the blood from his left eye.

"I don't need your help!" he rasped wrathfully. A violent wheeze followed his words, and dark blood sprayed from his mouth. "_I am not broken_. This will not break me. I will surpass Kakarot! Let go of me!" He jerked his face away from her hand, and again he tried to rise.

"Vegeta, stop! Please!"

Although the injured Saiyan managed to stand, he tripped over himself once he put weight on his mangled knee. He winced, and he panted heavily as lightheadedness washed over him. His vision blurred, and he did not know if he could remain conscious. He had lost the will to pick himself up off the ground once more.

"Yamcha!" he heard Bulma cry. "Don't just stand there—help me!"

"Is he out?" Yamcha asked.

"I don't know." She turned the Saiyan over onto his back. When she saw the large, bloody shard of glass protruding from his abdomen, she shrieked involuntarily. "We need to get him out of here—now!"

"What do you expect me to do about it?" Yamcha cried, exasperated.

"I can't carry him by myself, you idiot!"

"Goddammit, Bulma! Just move." Vegeta felt someone reach under his arms, preparing to hoist him up. His limp neck fell backwards, and his head rested on Yamcha's chest. "Stop crying, Bulma. You're going to need to hold onto his legs unless you want me to drag them. We headed to the infirmary?"

"Yeah," Bulma whimpered as she wrapped her arms around Vegeta's knees. When her forearm rubbed against the raw, exposed flesh of his injured leg, the Saiyan moaned miserably.

Yamcha sighed. "If he wanted to kill himself anyway, why couldn't he have just stayed dead?"

"Yamcha! That is _not_ funny!" Bulma snapped indignantly. "I think he's still conscious."

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely. "I don't know if you can hear me, Vegeta, but—sorry. You're still crazy, but, man, that looks like it hurts." A moment passed. "In all seriousness, though, do you think he did this on purpose?"

"I don't know."

Yamcha brightened his tone and said, "Come on, Bulma. He'll get through this. I've seen Goku worse off, and he pulled through just fine. It looks bad, but I don't think there's anything a doctor can't fix. You're the scientist—can't you tell?"

"Except for maybe his brain," Bulma added bittersweetly. "Hear that, Vegeta? You're crazy. If you make it, I swear I'm going to kill you."

"You got the door?" Yamcha asked.

"I think so."

"It's down the hall and to the right, right?"

"Yeah." A few more moments passed.

"Your mom is going to flip if she sees the blood on the floor—seriously."

"She doesn't hang around here, usually. It'll be okay. Hold on—I've got the door."

"Okay," Yamcha said, "Let's just set him down gently on the floor, and I'll go get the nurse. You stay here and watch him, all right? Once I'm sure the nurse is on her way, I'm gonna go tell your dad what all the noise was."

"Yeah," Bulma replied weakly. Vegeta felt the chill of a tiled floor against his bare skin. Before Yamcha released his hold on his shoulders, Vegeta felt Bulma's small hands cradle his head, and she lent her lap as a support.

"Don't you ever say I never loved you, Bulma!" Yamcha said.

Bulma sniffed. Apparently, her tears had returned. "Thanks for everything, Yamcha—really. You didn't have to do this. I don't even what to think what would've happened without you."

"Sometimes, you just gotta do things. This was one of those times. I'll tell you what, though—you definitely owe me some new weighted clothes. These are totally ruined. I'll hold you to it."

"You bet. Technically, Vegeta owes you, but who are we kidding?" Vegeta felt the woman stroke his cheek. "Don't be a stranger, okay, Yamcha? You're always welcome here for dinner and stuff. Thanks again."

"No problem." His footsteps echoed from the adjacent hallway.

Bulma's soft fingertips resumed their repetitive course across across Vegeta's face. "Your skin is really... cold," she said quietly. "I know you can hear me, Vegeta. Don't worry. The doctor's coming. You're going to be okay. You'd better be okay, anyway."

The Saiyan coughed weakly, and a tiny trail of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes tightly sealed, but he could feel the woman's gaze fixed upon him.

"You're such an asshole. You read my note, didn't you? And then you went and blew the ship up. You didn't listen to a word I said. Why did I even bother? I don't know what you're going through, what you _went_ through, or what you've _done_, but this was not the answer. I think you're alive for a reason, and I think your life matters. Would you throw it away like this? I don't think Goku spared you for nothing. I don't think your coming back was just a mistake. There's got to be more to it than coincidence. Call it providence, faith, or something. It's not just about you, Vegeta. There are other people in this world. You might not believe it, but there are people that care about you, too. You're not the only person in the universe. You're not alone, and you don't have to be. I wonder if you're even listening. Vegeta?"

"Sh—shut up, woman," he whispered between shallow breaths.

"Prick. I'd slap your sorry face if you weren't bleeding to death. I'm drenched in _your _blood and all you can say to me is 'shut up.' You have no idea how much this outfit cost. Fucking selfish-ass Saiyan. Hey! Don't you black out on me!" She tapped his cheek lightly.

Vegeta's face twitched in response.

"Okay, good." Her touch felt warm against the cold sweat collecting on his skin. "Just a minute or two more. Just be glad that we've got the 'Super Secret Saiyan Hospital' on our campus. It's not like we could just take you or Goku to a 'normal' hospital. One look at the base of your spine and they'd go nuts." She rested her hand on his forehead. "It's going to be okay," she repeated.

The phrase sounded so idiotic to him; he didn't know why she thought it so important to say over and over again. At least the sound of her whiny, emotion-besotted voice distracted him from the chill settling in his bones and the crushing pain in his chest. Perhaps distraction was the point; that made sense, at least. The woman's tones infiltrated his conscious mind, forcing pain away from its focus. Instead of his own broken body, his mind occupied Bulma's tranquilizing words. He had left himself and become something wholly different, and he was at peace.

This fact did not surprise him. It did not affect him at all, for he faded between consciousness and unconsciousness, waking and sleeping, and he had lost all power to process the phenomenon. Empty of himself, he slipped into oblivion.


	25. Painkillers

Soft sunshine peeked from behind the voluminous, late summer clouds, casting a ray of bright light through the window and across Vegeta's sleeping face. The Saiyan felt the intensity of the light through his eyelids, and he scrunched them together tightly in order to allow himself to adjust. Over the course of a few minutes, he found himself fully conscious, and he opened his eyes wearily. A faint clicking noise came from the corner of the room, and Vegeta glanced toward its source. Dr. Briefs sat alone, his nose inches away from a small device; intermittently, he puzzled at it, then poked at its metallic viscera with a needle-thin screwdriver.

Just before opening his mouth to speak, Vegeta realized an oxygen mask lay over his mouth and nose. Lethargically, he raised one arm to remove it.

"You're awake, Vegeta!" Dr. Briefs said, his eyes momentarily shifting away from the device in his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Old man," the Saiyan rasped, "fetch the Earth woman at once."

Dr. Briefs raised one eyebrow. "Hmm," he sighed after a few seconds, "I'm afraid you're going to have to narrow it down a bit for me." He chuckled quietly to himself. "There's more than one of them, you know."

"Bulma, you idiot. _Bulma_. Get her—_now_."

Setting the small device on his lap, Dr. Briefs seemed unfazed by and wholly oblivious to the Saiyan's terseness. "Oh, all right," he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. "She'll be glad to know you're awake." He held his phone to his ear. Vegeta had no trouble picking up its quiet ringing with his sharp hearing.

"What is it, daddy?" Bulma's voice answered.

"Vegeta's awake, and he's asking for you."

"Really?" She sounded surprised. "I'll be right there."

"Do you mind if I step out and get some lunch once you get here?"

"Not at all. Thanks for watching him, daddy. Talk to you later." She ended the call, and Dr. Briefs returned his phone to his pocket. After dropping his screwdriver into the same pocket, he gathered up the device he had been fidgeting with from his lap, and he ambled out of the room without a word.

Not five minutes later, Vegeta heard the clatter of Bulma's light, trotting footsteps from the hall. "Hey, you," she said, smiling, once she opened the door. A small desk stood beside the bed, and she pulled its matching chair away and sat down, her knees brushing the simple white bedspread. "How are you doing? Did you need something?"

As if he had not heard her, the Saiyan stared blankly at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds before saying anything. "How long have I lain unconscious?" he mumbled. "I demand to know what they have done to me."

"You've been out for two days. They fixed you up. That's all they did."

Vegeta blinked. "What did they do?" he reiterated, clearly desiring to hear specific information.

"Well, you were in critical condition for quite a while. You'd lost a lot of blood. There was quite a bit of internal bleeding from your broken ribs—yeah, you broke seven of them and perforated a lung—and that glass shard almost sliced your liver in half. Talk about blood loss. They had to get you stabilized before they could open you up and repair that. They put a tube in your chest to drain some of the excess fluid. Then they did what they could to repair your knee, and they cleaned up your cuts and burns. They had to stitch you up in a few places. You had to get a couple transfusions. You're lucky you're related to humans, because blood replacement would have been a lot more difficult if you had some weird, alien blood type. You weren't breathing deeply enough, so they've kept you on supplemental oxygen and painkillers." She added, "And, no, they didn't do anything funny with you, if that's what you were worried about. No tampering—just surgical repairs. You should probably put that mask back on, by the way."

Not once shifting his unblinking gaze from the ceiling, Vegeta had listened carefully. Absentmindedly, he had raised his left hand to his forehead, and he had begun scratching the skin surrounding a thin line of stitches.

Bulma grabbed his wrist and pushed his arm back down to his side. "Don't do that! Great—now it's bleeding." She stood up, then fetched some antiseptic wipes and gauze patches from a nearby cabinet. Just before she began to clean the reopened wound, Vegeta muttered, "I feel... weightless." His voice carried a tone of intense fascination.

"Um," Bulma said, "I think the morphine's gone to your head a bit." Once she had wiped away the excess blood, she applied the gauze with slight pressure. "Did you want anything else, or did you just want to know what happened to you?" She held the oxygen mask over his mouth before he tried to speak again.

"Get that away," he said, turning his head to one side. "I do not need it."

"Yes, you do! Hypoxia doesn't make you tough, you idiot."

"I have broken ribs before. I know my body." He paused. "And what is this 'morphine' you spoke of?" His eyes had narrowed in suspicion.

"It's an opioid painkiller, if you know what that is. It bonds with the central nervous system's pain receptors to help raise the pain threshold. It mimics the effect that an endorphin release has. You see that needle in your arm? It's going in through there along with some fluids and antibiotics."

Vegeta glanced at his forearm, his eyes widening. "Remove it immediately."

Bulma sighed. "No, Vegeta. You won't be able to breathe deeply enough. It will hurt too much if you stop taking the medicine."

"I will have no mind-altering substances in my body!" He began to fidget with the medical tape on his arm clumsily. With only a single pillow supporting his head, he could not see what he was doing very well, and he attempted to sit up in order to get a better view. The instant he flexed the necessary muscles of his chest and abdomen, however, he recoiled. He fell back, letting out a delayed squeal of pain and frustration. He drew his fingers into a fist and struck the bed angrily, causing the whole structure to shake.

"I am nauseous," he croaked. Truly, he wanted nothing less than to spew up whatever his stomach might contain. The thought of gagging alone—his abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily—brought a foretaste of the physical torment it would exact. In attempt to stave off his nausea, he bit down on his tongue. A single tear escaped from the outer corner of one eye.

Bulma took hold of his right hand. He did not shrink away.

"Talk, woman!" Vegeta ordered, his voice strained.

"About what?"

"Anything! Do as I say!" He had forgotten entirely about his request for her to remove his IV. "You never shut up—surely, you cannot have suddenly run out of things to say."

"This is really weird, but okay. And I'm only obeying you because you're having a hard time." She exhaled. "Well, you must be in a lot of pain, because I don't see you as the kind of guy to whine about injuries. I've heard breaking a rib is one of the worse things ever. At least with a broken leg or something, you have a better time keeping it still. You can't exactly keep your ribs still, though, because, you know—breathing. Damn, it sounds annoying. I don't know how I'd deal with it. I sprained my ankle a while back, and I cried like a baby. And you've got a new injury every time I see you walk out of that gravity room. That takes dedication—going and beating yourself up every day. I get my ass out of bed in time to work out maybe once a week. Your willpower is crazy. How do you stay focused on things for so long? I get distracted too easily. I always have a million different things I'm working on at once, and I'm not exactly the tidiest person, so I end up just working on the thing that's the least buried under the other things. You're not like that at all. You keep everything crazy clean. I couldn't function in a space that clean. It's disturbing in a weird way. There's a certain amount of mess I need to keep me from feeling nervous. I'm actually kind of nervous right now." Vegeta felt her press his fingers with her thumb. "You doing okay over there?" she asked him.

Now that he had lain still for a few minutes, the spike in pain from his attempt to sit up had subsided. Once he had caught his breath, his nausea had diminished as well, but that strange sensation of floating would simply not fade. He felt exposed somehow, as if the walls separating his inner thoughts from his outer expressions had come crashing down. Normally, the loss of control would have perturbed him deeply, but, in spite of everything, he found himself strangely carefree. Part of his mind told him that he _should_ feel perturbed, but he simply did not feel that way. Reality conflicted with the way his mind prescribed and defined reality. Yet even though this conflict raged within him, its violence remained light-years away.

"Hello? Earth to Vegeta!"

"Earth medicine is strange and inefficient," he mumbled.

"Mind telling me why you called me in here? Just curious."

"You would tell me the truth about what they did. And I wanted to hear your voice."

"Wait. What?"

"My toes itch. Badly." He wiggled them under the sheets.

Bulma snorted. "You are high off your ass."

"The sensation likens well to the one immediately following orgasm."

Bulma laughed mischievously. "I would record this if I was sure you wouldn't kill me when you found out about it."

"You will speak to no one of this! One word, and I shall silence you forever. Damn your human medicine to Hell!"

"_There's_ the Vegeta we all know and love. But no-filters Vegeta is pretty damn awesome." She squeezed his hand again. "What was it you said about my voice?"

"_Oh_." He extended the syllable for a full second or two, employing a gradual downward inflection as if he tried to remember something. "It was distracting. When I was on the floor. I needed a distraction."

"That all? Come on—does no-filters Vegeta stroke egos? What did you need a distraction from?"

"The pain," he answered monotonically.

Silence followed. "Nothing about my silvery, angelic tones? Nothing about the healing power of words spoken in love?"

"That is a load of shit."

"Goddammit," Bulma sighed. "I guess you're not secretly romantic. Judging by how much you're talking, at least, you really don't need the oxygen mask. Pretty remarkable, actually."

Vegeta blinked slowly. "I fucking hate Kakarot."

"That's random. Well, maybe not from you."

"He believes compassion holds some secret power. It didn't make me better, Kakarot. You're an idiot—just like Raditz. I fucking hated Raditz. Never thought about anything but what was right in front of his face—or his mouth, or his dick. Everything was always _just fine_. Give him a meal or a fight or a woman and he grinned like an idiot. It's just not that simple. It never is. I can't just 'enjoy life.'"

"What are you talking about, Vegeta?" She scooted her chair closer to the bed.

"_Frieza_," he whimpered. A handful of tears streamed down the sides of his face, but they soon dried, and the Saiyan reclaimed his empty stare. He felt too weightless to take up the burden of his memories."Talk, woman. Start talking."

"No-filters Vegeta can be depressing too, I guess. You know, I'm still pretty curious about Frieza. It would be a really bad idea to talk about him, though. So I'm going to stop now. I wonder if you're acting funny because of the pain or the medicine. It's probably a bit of both. I think I kind of understand why you don't like the medicine or anything mind-altering—like alcohol and stuff. You don't like it when you're not fully self-aware. A lot of people aren't like that—I'm not. Sometimes, I think it's fun to get a bit tipsy. At work, sometimes I can get pretty high-strung, and a good drink can calm my nerves pretty well once I get home. One time, I thought it was a good idea to bring the booze into the office. Turns out it wasn't such a great idea. At least I wasn't snapping at people like I usually do when I'm stressed. I wonder if you could even get drunk at all. I mean, your metabolism is crazy fast; you'd probably have to drink pretty much pure alcohol. The nurses had a fun time adjusting all of the dosages for your anesthesia and painkillers, by the way. What you're on right now would kill the average person." She paused. "I think one of the burns on your shoulder is bleeding again. I'll change the bandage for you."

Letting go of his hand, she strode toward the cabinet. After gathering some burn cream, a new dressing, and a pair of latex gloves, she washed her hands. Vegeta's eyes followed her lazily as she did so. He saw that she wore a casual red dress that skimmed the contours of her form rather gracefully. Its bright crimson brought out the coolness of her porcelain complexion, and the contrast produced a stunning effect of warmth and vibrancy. Transfixed, Vegeta watched her carefully as she resumed her seat. She walked clumsily as if she had never developed any keen awareness of how her weight shifted when she moved, but her overall silhouette showed nothing but balance and symmetry.

With cautious fingers, Bulma lifted the soiled bandage from Vegeta's upper arm. The wound stung slightly once exposed to the open air. Vegeta's attention shifted between Bulma's focused expression and his own injured flesh. He had expected himself to flinch at her touch, but his body gave no such response.

"Wow—this already looks a lot better than it did when I saw it a couple days ago! Saiyans are amazing." Once she had cleared away the residual blood and pus, she dabbed the soothing cream onto the Saiyan's raw skin before covering it and taping the dressing into place. Her eyes met his. "You should get some more rest," she said.

He did indeed feel incredibly drowsy, and his heavy eyelids closed of their own accord.


	26. Dreams

Power surged through every fiber of Vegeta's body; agony had left him. The Prince stood, and energy erupted from his core, veiling him in a cool, blue light. He had not noticed until just now, but he realized that his aura provided his surroundings their only light source. A vague glow danced at his feet, but, from what he could see, he occupied an empty void. The light he emitted illuminated the face of no surface, no object. He stood on a flat plane just as shadowed and infinite as the field of nothingness it stretched across.

An ambiguous dread welled up within him, and he began to run aimlessly. Following every other heartbeat, Vegeta felt his power spike, then crash. The rise of each undulation rammed against the boundaries of his person as if some indefinable force fought to break out. Blood roared in his ears. Seemingly out of nowhere, something akin to lightning flashed and clapped around him. Both the inner and outer chaos threatened to overwhelm his senses, and in a fevered attempt to block out at least some of the stimuli colliding with his consciousness, he ran faster and faster.

A golden light, warm like glow of a yellow star, appeared before him. With every hastened step, he drew nearer, and the closer he drew, the hotter his skin burned under the blaze. His veins seemed to melt within him, and he feared they might boil right up out of his body. The sensation was exhilarating. He could only imagine what awaited him when he finally reached the pillar of light. Apotheosis or death—he did not care which, and his will would bring him there.

As he closed the distance between himself and the radiant pillar, Vegeta discovered that someone stood at its center. He could not make out who it was; a blinding brightness enshrouded the figure. No more than a few inches away now, Vegeta could catch hold of the figure's garment if he reached out to touch it. But at that last moment, the figure spun to meet the Prince face-to-face.

It was Kakarot, brilliant energy erupting from every surface of his person. The golden light was not something Vegeta could claim; it had belonged to Kakarot, and it had its origin in him alone. The Prince would own neither death nor ascension—he had run a meaningless race with a false finish drawn along an empty plane. Vegeta could not stand to look into Kakarot's beaming face, and he lowered his eyes. He could not pinpoint what he felt at that moment, but it ranged from shame, to disappointment, fury, defeat, hatred, and to despair.

Wrathfully, Vegeta lashed out at Kakarot, swiping at him. Somehow, however, Kakarot had dodged the attack, and with every repeated attempt at a swipe, Vegeta found himself further and further away. He pursued the glowing Saiyan with as much speed as he could manage, flailing his limbs like a madman. Again, Kakarot stood but a few inches away.

"_Kakarot_!" Vegeta screamed savagely, and he launched himself at the other Saiyan full-force. But when his hands met with what would have been his neck, Kakarot dissolved into nothingness. He had vanished, and Vegeta crashed onto the ground. "Kakarot!" he screamed again. His hands trembling with distress, the Prince forced himself up into a kneeling position. "Where are you?" he called. His eyes darted across the void.

Kakarot had escaped even farther ahead. Now, however, another stood alongside him. Vegeta recognized the other's face. "It's _you_! The Saiyan—the one who defeated Frieza!" And indeed it was the very same young man, and a golden aura enveloped him just as it did Kakarot. With renewed rage, he glared into the young man's sparkling aqua eyes.

Something eerily familiar about the young man's countenance struck the Prince. The stern slant of his eyes, the austere expression—in them, Vegeta saw the face of his father, the King of All Saiyans. Vegeta remembered that he still remained on his knees, shaking like a frightened boy, and humiliation gripped him like a polar wind. He swore he could feel King Vegeta's condemnation beating down upon him, and he covered his face in disgrace.

"Father!" the Prince wept. "Forgive me!"

Not a second later, Vegeta felt strong arms encircle him, then bring him to his feet. Surprised, the Prince removed his hands from his face. Both Kakarot and the young Saiyan had gone, and now, inexplicably, he found himself in his own private quarters in his father's old palace. All looked exactly the same as it had the day the King had handed him over to Frieza. As he remembered that day, Vegeta's tail tightened around his father's arm unintentionally.

Then it occurred to him—he _had_ a tail again. Vegeta's arms darted to a nearby mirror. He saw that not only did he have a tail, but time had turned back, and he had become a child again. His father had rested him in the crook of his arm, and his heavy hand lay between his narrow shoulders, steadying him.

"Vegeta," the King said, "look." He gestured to a wide window.

Vegeta turned to the window and saw a fleet of space pods shoot into the red evening sky. He had forgotten how his father's deep voice would rumble in his chest as he spoke; he could feel the King's words echo in his bones.

"Those ships are headed to distant planets. Even the weakest of our people, whom we send away, are mighty enough to conquer worlds. Long ago, we did not have a planet of our own, and we would sail the heavens aimlessly in pirated ships. Do you remember the ancient writings? The first Super Saiyan—your father and mine—gave us our first planet, our home. Yet not long after his death, it was destroyed, and we again became wanderers. You were born on this planet, my son, but our race has had no home for most of its history. Although we are mighty, our foes are many, and we may become wanderers once more. You have had the luxury of never knowing what that is."

The King lifted his son from his shoulder, then set him on the ground. He strode to the window, and he held his hand out behind him. "Come here."

Vegeta raised his hand to his father's; his child's fingers barely extended past the older Saiyan's palm. Staring straight ahead, the King's hardened countenance betrayed nothing but that his thoughts occupied some distant matter or memory. The Prince knew, however, that what often seemed distant in his expression was often not actually so distant, but rather something the King wished to distance from himself.

"When you inherit this world, defend it with your life," he continued, "let none take it from you. It is your birthright. My father and I conquered it for you; my father fell to win you this inheritance." He turned his gaze from the window and met that of his son. "Frieza's actions have gone beyond mere disregard for our people. These next years may prove turbulent. You must carry out your studies and training with utmost discipline, Vegeta. The blood of Super Saiyans runs through your veins, and you may achieve that status yourself one day. It has been over a thousand years, and in times such as these, your transformation would be fitting." He smiled. "Consider it an order from your King and your father!"

And the Prince had always considered it an order. At the time, this order had brought him pride, inspiration, and hope. He had loved his father, and when he had dreamed of fulfilling this one wish, his heart would swell. If only King Vegeta had known how mistaken he had been to wish such a thing for his son. If only he had known that the Prince would live the disgraced life of a slave and a wanderer, that he would fail in defeating even such scum as Kakarot, that he would die at Frieza's hand. That order only mocked Vegeta now; it had become a curse and a burden. Yet nothing in the universe could ever cause him to forget it. It did not matter that Kakarot had ascended, it did not matter that the Saiyan race survived only technically, it did not matter that he would never avenge Frieza, it did not matter that, by all rights, he should be dead.

Once again, Vegeta found himself surrounded by emptiness, his form illuminated only by the energy emanating from him. No trace of either Kakarot or the young Saiyan remained. What was this place? Was it a dream? Yes—yes, it was a dream. The instant the word "dream" came to his mind, Vegeta realized he was dreaming. Of course he had been dreaming.

And now he was waking. His body remembered its injured state, and each breath brought a dull ache with it once again. Even so, he noticed that he could breathe much easier than he had the last time he remembered being conscious. His eyes flew open, and he surveyed the room.


	27. Admittance

From what Vegeta could tell, the sun had just begun to rise. The sky had lost its deep blackness, and a dim indigo gradually brightened on the horizon. The room's primary source of light came from a desk lamp not too far from his bed.

He was not alone in the room. Bulma sat at the desk, breathing the deep breaths of one fast asleep. She cushioned her head with the hollow of her arm. Still open, her laptop lay off to her side, and beside it stood a half-drunk mug of coffee. She wore a casual top and a pair of jeans—either she had changed clothes or another full day or more had passed since Vegeta last woke. Very slightly, his heart rate increased as he recalled what had transpired when last he was conscious.

He remembered feeling dazed and weightless; he remembered the woman's presence, and he remembered how she had spoken to him of a drug that had dulled his senses. As far as he could tell, his mind seemed much clearer than it had before, but he drew his arm into his line of sight, wanting to assure himself that the needle embedded there had gone. To his chagrin, however, there it still resided, taped to his wrist. What anger its presence had failed to incur before returned to him three-fold, and he nearly snarled audibly. The humans—_that woman_—thought they could meddle with his mind, and he scorned them for it.

His hands unsteady with rage, he sat up and tore the medical tape from his arm. He glared at Bulma's sleeping face. "How _dare_ you!" he growled gutturally. With more violence than necessary, he ripped the needle from his skin. A droplet of blood gathered at the entry wound.

Bulma snapped awake at the sound of his voice. Surprise and terror quickly spread across her face. "Vegeta! What the hell are you doing?"

With a scream, he hurled the needle and its tubing against the wall. The rack that suspended his IV went clattering to the floor.

"Calm down right now! That was just your medicine—I told you about it already. Calm the fuck down, Vegeta!" Bulma had scrambled out of her chair. In the process, she had knocked her mug off of the desk, and it shattered at her feet. She held one hand out in front of her, whether as a reinforcement of her words or as a means of defense Vegeta did not know.

He flung back the blanket and sheets that covered him. Someone had dressed him in a smock of flimsy fabric, and he tossed it away unceremoniously. Everything that touched him seemed an affront to his person; he would get out of this hateful room as swiftly as he could. He searched himself for any offending medical attachments.

"Stop!" Bulma yelled.

"Quiet, woman! Get out of my—" a cry interrupted his speech. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he yanked a catheter from himself. After a moment of hesitation resulting from the sudden, sharp pain, he leaped to his feet. He flipped the bed onto its side out of sheer wrath.

"What the fuck! Now you've really lost it!" Bulma cried, backing herself into a corner. "Calm down!"

Sputtering lividly, Vegeta scanned the floor for a clear path to the door. The smooth tiles had become a field of hazards, cluttered with an assortment of broken ceramic and medical equipment and newly slick with an admixture of saline solution, urine, and lukewarm coffee. The sight of all the chaos itself only angered the Saiyan further, and with a few hastily-planned strides, he fled into the hallway. The woman's footsteps echoed behind him; she followed him as he had expected.

"Vegeta!" she called out after him. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Before he knew where his feet carried him, Vegeta had escaped onto the Capsule Corp. lawn. He stood still for a moment, turning his head every which way in search of somewhere to go. His ship—Capsule No. 3—it rested in its usual place; someone had cleared away the rubble and had at least begun a reconstruction. He darted for it.

"You can't be serious!" Bulma screeched.

Within a matter of seconds, Vegeta had disappeared into the bowels of the ship, locking the hatch behind him. He fumbled with the switches at the main console, hoping that he could get the gravity simulator online. Outside, he could hear Bulma pounding the ship's hull furiously. He did not care. Once the gravity simulator's screen flickered on, he commanded it to carry out a sequence set at four hundred times Earth's gravity. He fetched threw on a pair of athletic shorts sloppily as the computer processed his request.

As the machine began to hum, Vegeta noted that he could no longer hear Bulma knocking. Perhaps she had finally acquired enough sense to realize that he did not want her anywhere near him presently. A little relieved, the Saiyan tried to catch his breath. Although his chest still ached, he found he could breathe deeply without an unreasonable amount of discomfort. He wondered how long he had lain recovering; he had no way of knowing.

After a couple minutes, Vegeta realized that the gravity simulator had maxed out at fifty times normal gravity. Dr. Briefs had not finished his reconstruction, apparently. The Saiyan was angry enough about everything else that it did not matter to him whether the gravity reached the level he desired. The familiarity of pressure and routine alone sufficed in comforting him. He sighed as he focused his energy and lifted himself into the air.

But only seconds later, Bulma's face flashed before him, projected by the satellite communicator. Vegeta ground his molars together.

"Stop it, Vegeta!" she yelled, her words hoarse with emotion. "You're in no condition to be doing this right now. You could get yourself killed. I know you don't want to believe it, but you are made of flesh and blood. You can get hurt, and you have weaknesses just like everybody else! Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Vegeta could feel his pulse in his head. "You dare to pester me, woman, after all you have done? Leave me alone!"

"You know I'm right! Why don't you just listen to me? You're _hurt_, Vegeta—_hurt_."

His focus slipping away, he collapsed. He fell on his side.

Bulma gasped. "Why don't you admit to yourself that you're hurt? Everybody knows it but you. Nothing to say? Admit that I'm right! Listen to me—get out of there right now and go back to bed!"

His side sending stabs of agony through his body, Vegeta clawed at the ground to keep himself from crying out. "No—no, _you_ listen!" he rasped. "_Leave me_—_alone_!" The cry he had tried to suppress came out with those words. His eyes burned and throbbed with the hot blood that flooded through every capillary.

Bulma whimpered as if on the verge of tears. Vegeta hated it, hated her. He hated himself; why couldn't he get up? He screamed into the floor with the high-pitched screech of a child. He smashed his fist against the ground, the force of it shaking out the water that had collected in his eyes. The light from the projection had gone; at least the woman had ended her transmission. At least he didn't have to see or hear her anymore. At least no one was there to watch him like this, sobbing in quivering heap like a broken man. And he lay there like that for a time he would never care to estimate.

Vegeta heard a heavy crash. The hum of the gravity simulator slowed, then ceased entirely. The hatch had been unlocked and opened. Someone had gained admittance into the ship, someone had come for him; he knew who it was. Even with the pressure lifted, he remained motionless. His rage had melted away into apathy.

Bulma ran awkwardly to his side, then knelt. Vegeta glanced at her lethargically; more than anything, she seemed afraid. She had stretched her hand toward his face, but she let it hover motionlessly a couple inches above his cheek as if she had not decided whether to touch him or not. "Vegeta—" she muttered.

He blinked the tears from his eyes. "What business is it of yours," he began with a bitter whisper, "what business is it of _yours_ if I die, if I choose to end my life? Do you know what I have done? Do you know what I have left undone? Do you know how I have failed?" He raised his voice with every syllable. "I _should_ have died! What does it matter? Everything was taken from me—_everything_. Even Frieza was taken from me. Even my hatred. Even my death was taken—stolen from me! Not even that wish was granted."

Bulma only listened. Her hand still hovered over him incredulously.

"Yes." He nodded manically. "Yes, I admit it. I _am_ broken. I _am _hurt. I pretend that I don't believe it, but I really do. I pretend that you are wrong. Because if lose my pride and give up my pretending, then I am nothing. My life is lies, a mistake—in truth, I am nothing. I am destroyed. I am dead. I have been nothing for a very long time, and Frieza _loved_ me for it." His tone had dropped to a sharp, cutting hiss. "I never wanted _immortality_." He spat the word as if it disgusted him. "I only wanted to kill Frieza; immortality was a means to an end. And now that he's gone, what do I have? I have Kakarot—just Kakarot, the one who took my reason for living. And yet he's the one who—_out of mercy_—gave me life!"

Tears had risen to Bulma's eyes. Her hand trembled.

"Look at me!" he said. "This is who I _really_ am." He took her hand in his own, then pressed it to his cheek. She trembled still. "You've known it all along. Is it what you expected? Did you want to be right about this? Because you are. I hope you're satisfied, woman. You even proved it to me in a way I'd never expected. From your little experiment, I learned that my race was no more than a handful of humans Frieza's people took, broke, and then destroyed!"

"Vegeta, I—I don't know what to say."

A single dark laugh escaped his throat. "For once, you have nothing to say. You've finally pried me open, but you have nothing to say about it. You just wanted to tamper with me; you just wanted to see which one of your little tools could loosen my screws. You wanted to get into my head and play with it—just like Frieza."

"No. That's not it at all—!"

"Don't mock me. I do not need your insult. This whole planet is an insult to me—its beauty, its peace, its people, its women. This planet is just another thing taken from me. My people should have never left this solar system! I am nothing. Who am I to appreciate this world? No one—all I can do is destroy and unmake, just as Frieza intended. I'm a murderer, a pervert, a vandal, a lunatic, a sinner."

Both sat in silence. Vegeta cried, and Bulma let him. The first yellow light of morning crept through the open hatch.

"Vegeta," Bulma said at last. "I can't even begin to understand what you're feeling. I probably never will. It would be silly of me to think I could. I'm sorry about what's happened, and I'm sorry for anything wrong I've done to you. I'm in way over my head, and I know it. All I can do is be here, so that's what I'm doing."

Countless sensations, emotions, memories, and thoughts harassed Vegeta's mind, each one screaming for Vegeta's undivided attention. In doing so, however, they drowned out all the others, and their collective voices amounted to little more than white noise. The soft din brought on a peculiar numbness; it soothed tense muscles, and it let the subconscious breathe the open air for a brief time. Whatever Vegeta had said—and he would never remember all of it—had poured itself out; he had expelled it like foul-tasting poison. Almost instantly, his condition improved, bringing him the beginnings clarity and composure.

The woman's hand lay limp along his face, and her thumb rested just beyond the outer corner of one eye. What did she think she was doing? A downward turn weighed on her pretty lip, and her glassy blue eyes seemed smaller, burdened by the confusion and concern that knit her brow. Everything about her was distracting—her beauty, her expression, her voice, her touch. Vegeta did not often welcome distractions freely, but he welcomed this one. This time, he had the self-awareness to recognize just how much he welcomed it. He wished the woman would say something. For once, he did not want to focus on himself and his person and his wretchedness.

Bulma smiled weakly. "You going to be okay? You seem a bit better. It probably felt good to get that out of your system. How you kept it in there so long is beyond me. I'll stay here with you as long as you need me to. At least it looks like you've recovered enough to walk around! That's great. It didn't take long. Maybe you'll be healed by the time my dad finishes fixing the ship. Then you can start your training again. Sound good?"

Vegeta did not respond. He didn't want to have to dig into his mind to conjure up an answer. He preferred to listen only and let her distract him.

"How about we get you to your room? I mean the guestroom, not the infirmary. It's a bit hectic in there now, to say the least. Or do you want to stay here a bit longer? We'll be keeping my dad out if we stay, though."

The Saiyan gathered his knees beneath him, indicating that he was preparing to get up. He didn't require her help in standing.

"Okay, let's go." Together, they left the capsule ship, and Vegeta followed Bulma across the grounds and to his room. He had walked behind her, watching her. She opened his door for him, but did not enter his space. "I'm going to get some shuteye in, if you don't mind. I stayed up most of the night. But you know where my room is. It's really close. You can find me there if you need me. You're going to get in bed and rest, right?"

Although he gave no indication in the affirmative, he had every intention of doing what Bulma had just proposed.

Before she turned to leave, the woman wrapped one arm around his neck. Vegeta could tell she had made a conscious effort to avoid touching his badly bruised chest. "We care about you, Vegeta—me and my family. Keep trying to get better." When she spoke, she stood close enough to him for him to feel her breath brush his shoulder.


	28. Order and Chaos

Vegeta dozed for a few hours, but he could not fall asleep. He had slept so much over past few days that he would remain restless no matter how weary of mind he was. He found himself caught between having too much energy and having no desire to do anything with it. The afternoon sun shone vibrantly, charging the air with heat and vitality. While Vegeta could feel it around him, he felt numb and disconnected from it all. Eventually, it grew stifling, and he extricated himself from the sheets. He made his bed as he went over the possible things he could do with himself now that he had given up on sleeping.

Half-soiled bandages still covered his body, he realized. He determined that he would remove them, then take his first shower in days. He smelled of sweat, old blood, urine, and antiseptic; he would be glad to rid himself of the stench such an admixture produced. Treading quietly down the hallway, he entered the bathroom.

His reflection glared back at him in the mirror. He looked truly awful. His hair had begun to wilt under the weight of its own filth, he had lost a noticeable amount of muscle tone, and his eyelids had a distinct puffiness. Multiple large, half-healed bruises tinted the skin stretched across his upper body with ugly shades of green and purple. When he peeled away the dressings that shielded the various cuts and burns that covered him, at least, he found that most of them had healed completely. Only a few would leave scars.

A dark line of sutures ran horizontally from the center of his chest to just below his ribs on his right side. Vegeta fetched a small hand-held mirror from a drawer in order to examine the stitches more closely. The flesh around them had mended sufficiently. He reached into the drawer again, this time retrieving a pair of manicure scissors and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. After disinfecting the scissors, he removed the sutures one by one. Vegeta did not consider the process all that painful. What little blood the wound seeped the Saiyan would swiftly wash away in the shower.

But no matter how long Vegeta stayed in the humid bathroom, his eyes would not seem to lose their dryness. The mild sting made him remember—he had spent the first few hours of the morning weeping on the gravity chamber floor. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach. He could only wonder what had caused him to behave so pitifully. He had not had full control over himself, certainly. Perhaps he had suffered psychological symptoms of withdrawal from the painkillers the humans had given him. He had, after all, torn the needle from his arm soon before that "episode" of his.

No—he could not excuse his conduct with such a feeble explanation as that. He knew full well that his mind had been clear when he woke. He had simply lost control. It wasn't so surprising now that he thought about it. He had not followed any sort of established routine in months. He had no space of his own but what Bulma's family had given him, whether his room or his ship. Most of the time, he depended on others for such basic things as clothing, meals, and scheduling. On this planet, he had nothing by way of currency. Of course he had lost control—he had never had it to begin with, and the chaos had gotten to him. Until Vegeta had taken reality and formed it with his own hands, it remained a shapeless, indiscriminate mess. It was the only explanation. Vegeta would not accept that he simply had emotional meltdowns from time to time; it would not make sense, given who he was.

He would forget about the whole ordeal, and he would move on. Whatever had come over him had passed.

But then there was _that woman_. At every turn, she had insisted on creeping uninvited into every corner of his life. She had even followed him halfway across the world. It seemed that, wherever he went, she would appear. No matter how far he fled, whether to another continent or another galaxy, she would find him. Whatever order Vegeta had constructed around himself, the woman would wedge herself in, and she would send it all into chaos once more. She had become so omnipresent that she had managed to catch him that morning, when his guard was down. Now, even when he had rid herself of her presence, he found her lurking about his thoughts. He was thinking of her now, he realized.

His hand rested on the door to her bedroom. He couldn't remember how he had gotten there, but there he was nevertheless. He wasn't losing his mind, at least; he _did_ have unfinished business with her, and he had to discuss it with her privately. On the other side of the door, he could sense her dormant energy. Apparently, she still slept. Making no sound, he entered her room.

Vegeta could hardly believe what he saw when he inspected this new space. So many bright colors collided with his eyes that they nearly blinded him. Various articles of clothing lay strewn across the floor alongside loose papers, dirty dishes, and any number of things the Saiyan would not trouble himself to identify. How could a sane person_ live_ in such a space, let alone think, work, or sleep? Vegeta had never considered her fully sane anyhow, and the state of her room verified that belief.

She lay splayed across her bed with about as much elegance as the laundry littering her floor. The sheets had tangled themselves around her legs in an impossible knot, and one foot stuck out from beneath them. Twisted awkwardly to one side, her head rested flat on the mattress, her pillow fallen to the ground beside the bed. She wore a flame-red nightgown that exposed her bare shoulders, and Vegeta stared at her for a few seconds before he remembered what he had resolved to do.

"Woman," he barked.

Bulma's face twitched, but she remained unconscious.

"Woman," Vegeta repeated.

Lazily, Bulma opened one eye. An instant later, however, she jerked both eyes open. She screamed. Desperately, she flailed her legs in attempt to disentangle them from her sheets.

"Woman!" Vegeta growled, glowering at her.

Bulma froze. She exchanged her expression of terror for an apologetic one. "You scared me!" she said, panting.

His arms crossed over his chest, Vegeta merely scowled in silence.

"You could have knocked or something, you creep! I would have answered the door." Flustered, she tried to straighten her blanket. For some reason, she seemed to be avoiding eye-contact. "You don't just barge into people's rooms without telling them. Not here on Earth."

"You said earlier that I could find you here if I needed something," the Saiyan said matter-of-factly.

Bulma fetched the pillow that sat on the floor next to her, then held it tightly in front of her chest. She studied Vegeta's face for a moment, looking concerned. "Is something wrong, Vegeta? What do you need?"

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly realized how little desire he had to actually talk about the events of that morning, and he ended up just standing beside Bulma's bed awkwardly, agape. Why had he even considered this present encounter necessary? He should have just returned to his room.

"What's the matter?"

"This morning," he began quietly. "Should you mention it to anyone, it will cost you dearly. It was because of that vile medicine you gave me. I was not myself, and you shall not speak of it—not to me, not to anyone. Understand?"

Bulma blinked. "It's okay to vent sometimes, Vegeta. You don't need to feel bad about it. I don't think any less of you. I think more of you, actually. You were being honest. I think you were being yourself just fine. Don't worry."

"I don't care what it meant to you. Did I ask for an opinion, a value judgment? You shall not speak of it!"

"Chill out. I wasn't planning on going out and telling everyone anyway. That would be a really stupid thing to do."

"Assuredly!"

Bulma set her pillow down, and she turned, putting her feet on the ground. Vegeta couldn't help but glance at her naked neck; delicate lace framed her breasts. "Don't worry. I won't go blabbing. I wouldn't be a very good friend if I let down your trust like that. Anything else on your mind?"

He detested that "friend" talk. She seemed to make it a point to mention it every chance she could. It made him want to gag. Vegeta's eyes darted back to Bulma's face. Inexplicably, she was blushing. He decided not to think about it. "I'm hungry," was all he said.

"Oh, okay. I guess that makes sense. You haven't eaten in a while." She stood up, pulling her nightgown further down her thighs. "We thought you might wake up today because they took you off the morphine last night, so my mom was planning on making a big dinner. You're in luck. Why don't you head downstairs and see how things are coming? It's like five o'clock or something. I'm going to get dressed and stuff." She disappeared into her closet and tossed an outfit and a pair of shoes onto her bed.

Vegeta didn't move.

"You just going to stand and stare? I'm flattered, but I'm not going to strip in front of you. Honestly, I'm surprised you even came in here. And now I'm having to kick you out. What's up with that?" She was talking mostly to herself.

"This room is filthy," Vegeta grumbled as he tiptoed to the door, trying to avoid stepping on any clutter.

"Well, thanks. Everybody has their messes. I'd rather mine be in my room than in my brain or something. Better out than in!" Bulma sighed. She smiled at the Saiyan from over her shoulder, then pointed at the door. "Seriously, Vegeta, get out."

And he did. For a moment or two, he paced in the hallway in attempt to forget everything that had just happened. He supposed he would go downstairs and scrounge for food as the woman had suggested. He was starving; he had not lied when he said he was hungry. As he descended the staircase, he heard Bulma slam her bedroom door, then enter the bathroom.

A second later, she shrieked. "Ugh! Why is there _blood_ in the sink? _Vegeta_!"

The woman was driving him crazy.


	29. Chocolate

Vegeta paused at the foot of the staircase. Looking ahead into the dining room, he spied Dr. Briefs sitting at the table. Yamcha and Puar routinely exited and entered the room, bearing dishes with each turn. Apparently, Vegeta would have to wait at least a little while longer for his first solid meal in days. He had absolutely no desire to waste time among the humans, so he sneaked into an adjacent room. Resting his back against a wall, he found a corner from which he could watch the nearby hallways, the staircase, and the dining room entrance.

Mrs. Briefs appeared not thirty feet from where Vegeta stood. Reflexively, Vegeta suppressed his energy further as if he might give his position away. He realized in the next instant that it would not matter. Not only could Mrs. Briefs not sense energy, but he stood within her line of sight no matter how he might have hidden himself as well. Vegeta took care to remain completely motionless in an effort not to draw attention to himself. From what he knew of the woman, she was absentminded enough that he stood a good chance of escaping her detection.

"Vegeta dear!"

He had miscalculated.

She rushed straight up to him. "Goodness! You look so much better! All the color's back in that handsome face of yours. But what are you doing all the way over here? Everyone else is already sitting down. You must be famished! Why don't you come with me? I might need a taste-tester!" She giggled. "Oh, I'm just so glad you're feeling better! I could give you a hug!"

"Mom!" Bulma interjected.

"Hi, sweetie! How was your nap?"

Vegeta bolted from his corner once Mrs. Briefs had turned to greet her daughter. Never before had he been so relieved to see Bulma.

"It was fine," Bulma answered. "Don't go hugging Vegeta just yet, mom. He broke some ribs, remember?" She winked at the Saiyan.

"How silly of me! He's just so cute, and I was so happy to see him."

"That's wonderful, mom. Let me help you and Yamcha bring everything to the table." She took her mother by the arm. The two of them passed Vegeta on their way to the kitchen. Aside to him, Bulma whispered, "That's right. I just saved your ass. Go sit down—you'll get to stuff your face in a few minutes. I promise."

If not for his hunger, Vegeta would have retreated to his room. Crossing paths with Mrs. Briefs had only magnified his reluctance to interact with the others willingly. Without a sound, he made his way to the dining room, and he took a seat as far away from Yamcha and Dr. Briefs as he could. The older man seemed not to have noticed the Saiyan's arrival, still tinkering with the same device Vegeta had seen him toying with the other day. Yamcha, however, recognized Vegeta's presence immediately, and their eyes met.

"Vegeta," Yamcha said, nodding his head.

At least the greeting was somewhat dignified. Vegeta nodded in return, hoping that Yamcha would decide against chatting. It seemed unlikely, and that brought the Saiyan a small amount of relief.

At the mention of Vegeta's name, Dr. Briefs glanced toward Yamcha, then quickly spotted the Saiyan sitting opposite him. "Hello! I didn't see you come in. I have some good news for you. I should have that ship fully repaired in a week or less, then you can use it again."

Vegeta nodded. He didn't know what he would do with a week without gravity simulations, but at least the humans had the sense to rebuild the capsule.

"I'm strengthening the system," Dr. Briefs continued. "It will be capable of going up to five hundred times Earth's gravity no problem—possibly even more. And the fuel cells are more compact this time around. That will nearly double the fuel capacity. You could be in space for up to a full year, I think."

"Good," remarked Vegeta.

"Planning on going somewhere?" Yamcha asked. He had left, then returned with a truly immense quantity of assorted grilled meats.

Vegeta had not even thought about it—not recently, anyway. Perhaps he would think about it later. In any case, such information was no one's business, and certainly not Yamcha's. "That is no concern of yours."

"So you are planning on leaving?"

Bulma, after heaping mashed potatoes onto Vegeta's plate, had taken her seat next to her father, and she watched the Saiyan intently.

"It is illogical for you to assume that, Earth man. I said nothing in the affirmative or the negative. I merely said that it was no concern of yours, which it remains."

Yamcha, visibly frustrated, had balled his fist around his fork.

"And not only do you operate under the delusion that it concerns you," Vegeta continued with dark amusement, "but you seem to care about it. Why is that, I wonder?" He proceeded to shovel mashed potatoes into his mouth. While he did wonder what made Yamcha so anxious to know whether he would leave or stay, curiosity by no means consumed him. He figured that Yamcha wanted him to leave.

"You know, I pretty much saved your li—"

"Hey, Yamcha," Bulma interrupted. "Do you want steak or salmon to start off with?"

"Um, salmon. Thanks."

She shifted her attention to the Saiyan. "Vegeta, all of that undercooked stuff to the right is for you. Help yourself."

He skewered two large steaks with his knife.

"Oh my, young man!" Mrs. Briefs exclaimed. "If you eat like that, you won't have any room for the chocolate cake I made for dessert! Bulma told me you like chocolate. It's Yamcha's favorite too. It would be such a shame if you didn't get to taste it."

Now that he had sated his hunger somewhat, Vegeta began to regret ever subjecting himself to the humans' company. The moment he had eaten his fill, he would find someplace else to go. He did not care to remain for such trivialities as the rumored chocolate cake.

"Why don't you tell everyone what you and I have been working on together, daddy?"

"Why not?" Dr. Briefs answered, smiling. "Well, thanks to Goku and Vegeta here, I've spent a lot of time working with artificial gravity. We're developing simplified artificial gravity consoles for use in commercial space travel. Astronauts won't have to worry about bone deterioration and the like on extended missions anymore. If children are born in space, they won't suffer developmental deformities. It's going to be absolutely groundbreaking. Capsule Corp. won some hefty funding for the initial proposal. Right now, we're working on a gravity simulator that will be compatible with the technology that runs on the International Space Station. All they will have to do to install it, essentially, is plug it in. It's causing more trouble than you'd think. We're having to adapt alien technology to make it compatible with Earth's. That part's kept secret, of course, and keeping it secret is half the trouble."

"Saiyan technology literally pushed us hundreds of years into the future," Bulma added.

"Your engineers must have been brilliant," Dr. Briefs remarked, looking at Vegeta.

"Our race did not have many engineers," Vegeta corrected in between mouthfuls, "and much of our technology was pirated. At birth, Saiyans are measured for traits such as strength and intelligence. Some of the most intelligent Saiyans were set aside and trained up in the scientific fields for which they showed the most talent."

"How could you test capabilities like that at such a young age with any accuracy?" Dr. Briefs asked.

"We identified genes that tended to give advantages in certain areas of life. We then ensured that each child was properly raised in an environment that ensured the expression of the positive genetic traits identified."

"Fascinating," Dr. Briefs mused after a moment of thought. "I don't know if I'd want anything like that here on Earth, though. It seems a bit murky, ethically speaking, when I really think about it. Interesting nonetheless."

"Just look at how well those two get along!" Mrs. Briefs cheered. "I didn't know you were so smart, Vegeta! And all this time I thought you were just a pretty face. You're a real catch, you know?"

"Minus the murderous tendencies," Yamcha muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

The humans, with the exception of Yamcha, were _fawning_ over him, Vegeta realized. It disgusted him, and he felt a slight warmth rise to his cheeks out of embarrassment. Perhaps they did it because they felt sorry for him after his injuries—pathetic. And _Bulma's mother_—he didn't even want to _speculate_ what could have possibly gone wrong in her head. Hastily, Vegeta downed his fifth cut of salmon, then he stood from his chair without warning and made way for the door to the courtyard.

"Where are you going, Vegeta dear? Don't you want dessert?" Mrs. Briefs called after him.

The Saiyan ground his teeth together. "I want no more of you and your chocolate confections!" he thundered as he slammed the door behind him.

He saw the capsule ship, and he would have entered it if not for his knowledge that it was currently non-operational. Instead, he crouched in its shadow, resting his back against one leg of its landing gear. Behind Capsule Corp.'s dome, a red sun hung low in the sky. It occurred to Vegeta that he had done nothing at all productive that day, nor had he for a week or so. He longed for the day when he could resume his training, reestablish his routine.

He stripped himself of his shirt and examined his chest and abdomen, patting and massaging his flesh with his hand. Since he had looked at it in the mirror, his bruising had faded noticeably, and although some tenderness remained, he felt no more outright pain. It brought no more discomfort than the chilly, late-evening evening wind now grazing his bare shoulders did. The hair at the base of his neck tingled in response to the sudden cold, and Vegeta pulled his shirt back on.

As the horizon darkened into its nighttime navy, it only grew chillier. The occasional gust rustled the carefully trimmed lawn, and a few fallen leaves flitted through the air. Vegeta got up and began to pace up and down the grounds, partially because he wanted to keep himself warm, partially because he wanted something to do, and partially because he had become so accustomed to constant movement rather than constant stasis. On account of his having slept so much recently, he figured he would have trouble falling asleep until late into the night.

He heard a door open, then close. In a flash, he had disappeared back into his spot beneath the capsule ship. He should have known the woman would come and look for him eventually. It did not take her long to find him, and it never seemed to.

"I figured you wanted to have some alone time after hanging out with everybody, and I was going to let you be, but you seemed restless," she stated in one breath. "I could see you pacing from the living room." Exhaling, she plopped down on the grass beside him. "I brought you three things. I'll give them to you to do with as you will, then I'll leave you alone."

Vegeta glared at her. "As long as you leave, it makes no difference to me."

"Great," she muttered sarcastically. "Okay, then. First, here's a jacket. My mom got it for you while you were still healing up. It's kind of chilly out here."

As much as he hated to admit it, Vegeta took the jacket gratefully. He snatched it from Bulma and threw it on, staring sternly at the ground as he did so.

"Nice. It suits you." She held out a small, lidded container. "This is leftover cake."

The Saiyan crossed his arms over his chest and chuffed condescendingly. He did not want to touch anything that reminded him of Mrs. Briefs.

"Whatever. Okay—last thing." She offered him a wide-brimmed ceramic cup with a handle on one side. Steam rose from the surface of the rich brown liquid it contained. "This is hot chocolate. It's a hot drink made with milk and cocoa. Don't worry—it's non-alcoholic. I like it a lot. You should at least try it."

Vegeta reached out to take the mug.

"Be careful. It's very hot. Take it by the handle."

Each of their fingers fumbled awkwardly with the other's as the mug exchanged hands. Suspiciously, Vegeta raised it to his nose, testing its aroma as one would test for traces of poison. It seemed harmless enough; it smelled of cocoa and milk, just as the woman had said. Taking a sip, he learned that it tasted of them too. He felt the beverage's warmth trail all the way down into core. The sensation pleased him, and he decided that he liked hot chocolate.

Bulma gathered her feet beneath her in preparation to stand up. "I'm going now, just like I said."

"No," Vegeta insisted. "Stay right where you are, and tell me why you brought me here."

Bulma froze. "Brought you where? Do you mean here, to Capsule Corp.? To live with my family?"

"Yes."

She raised one hand to her chin and looked the Saiyan directly in his eyes. "Lots of reasons, actually, and mixed ones at that. I guess I'll start with the more negative ones. For starters, I figured that it would be safer for the world if you were here with us with everything you might need rather than out running amok. As long as you were with us, you'd have people around that would try to stop you if you did anything funny."

Vegeta snickered to himself. "As if they could."

Bulma rolled her eyes. "Right. Well, fortunately, you haven't tried to hurt anybody but yourself since you've been here."

The Saiyan sunk his gaze into his half-empty mug.

"There are other reasons, though," she went on, softer now. "You helped us on Namek. That, and Gohan told me about... what happened to you. I knew you had no more of a place to go than the Namekians. If I gave them a place to stay, then I guessed I could invite one more person. There was something more to you. I see that better now, especially since I've gotten to know you a bit. Is that a good enough answer?"

He nodded.

"Good." She smiled. "Have a good night, Vegeta."

Before she could get up to leave, he caught hold of the sleeve of her sweater, just above her elbow. He tugged on the material with just enough force to make her weight shift toward him. Reflexively, she balanced herself by resting one hand right below his collar bone. Her blue eyes widened and sparked with shock.

"Uh, did that hurt?" she asked.

"No," he purred quietly. What was he doing? He didn't care. She was beautiful. She was there, and she always had been. He could think about it later. His hand slid from her arm to her neck; sweeping lightly across her skin, he could feel that it was warm and smooth like melted chocolate. Her pulse raced beneath his touch.

"You're out of your mind, Vegeta," Bulma whispered as she wrapped both arms behind his neck. She kissed him gently.

"Yes." He returned her kiss. One of her hands rose to his cheek.

"Goodnight." She sprang to her feet.

Too stupefied to react, he stared blankly after her as she fled.


	30. Dissonance

Vegeta folded in on himself, drawing his legs to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees. What had just happened repeated itself over and over in his mind; he could think of nothing else. He knew that, before he could plan and carry out his next course of action, he had to sit still and fully process what had taken place. His heart raced; he did not want to worsen the situation by behaving rashly. Over the past few weeks, he had disgraced himself enough. Something about this planet and its people upset his composure, tampered with his psychology.

He remembered what Yamcha had asked him over dinner: "Planning on going somewhere?" Once Dr. Briefs had repaired the ship, Vegeta realized, he could leave Earth, and nothing could make him return. He could pirate resources if he needed them. With Frieza's empire in shambles, he could even take up a respected place in the universe if he wished; none but Kakarot would have the might to oppose him, and Kakarot currently busied himself with Earth and its affairs. While Kakarot worried over the androids, Vegeta could find at least one faction of Frieza's armada that would turn and pledge loyalty to him. Then, if Kakarot survived the androids' coming, the Prince would not have to face him alone should he come after him.

Vegeta snarled to himself and dug his nails into his shins. He would not leave Earth—how could he even have entertained such a cowardly scheme? Surely, he had lost his mind if he had started considering letting the androids or a hired army dispose of Kakarot. Kakarot's death held meaning only insofar as Vegeta brought it about himself; by no means could the Prince of All Saiyans settle a matter of honor dishonorably. Ashamed, the Prince released a long sigh. No longer could he have any doubt that Earth had impinged upon his sanity.

In spite of everything, though, remaining on Earth did not seem so terrible. It surprised Vegeta immensely that it did not. He could still feel the warmth of the hot chocolate he had drunk settled in his stomach. The beverage had tasted so rich and sweet, and it had followed a large, savory supper. After his shower, he had dressed himself in clean, soft Earthling garments. Tonight, when he finally felt weary enough, he would crawl into cushioned bed with weighty blankets, and he could sleep as long as he wanted. He had not lived like this since his earliest years, since his childhood life on Planet Vegeta. It was all so idyllic that Vegeta could barely stand it. Perhaps it was the unreality of it all precisely that threatened his soundness of mind.

Earth may as well be some dreamworld—an impossibly idealistic place of bucolic fantasy. He could do nothing but view it as if through a screen, as an outsider; he did not belong there. Earth made his heart ache like a bright light sears eyes long grown accustomed to darkness. Vegeta's view of the universe could not include such planets as this one. He had always supposed the universe was a cold, bleak reality, but Earth and its warmth challenged that supposition. This place introduced an anomaly, an inconsistency that he could not force into logical submission. He hated it along with every other element of chaos.

Vegeta was giddy, and that disturbed him. He could feel himself smiling, but his consciousness thereof produced some strange sensation of cognitive dissonance. He did not like that dissonance, nor did he like the duality—the conflict, complexity, and unpredictability—it implied. He did not like that he was smiling like a fool. Why, then, was he doing it? As long as he felt disconnected from himself like this, he knew he could not keep a firm hold on his self-sovereignty, his perfect universe. Fervently and desperately, he wished that he could simply quell his giddiness and feel nothing. Instead, he could feel nothing but how warm his jacket kept him and how soft the woman's lip had been when it had met his.

That woman especially drove him crazy. That fact now lay beyond all reasonable doubt. How this had happened he couldn't guess. Mysteriously, over the course of the past months, she had taken up residence in his thoughts, and as time went on, she came to occupy more rather than less space. She had planned it all along, of course. She had dealt with him tactically; she had even said so. If she had meant to invade his person, then she had succeeded—a terrible feat indeed. Vegeta could not decide whether to admire or despise her for it.

All that remained for him to answer was _why_ the woman had devised the plans she had carried out. What had she hoped to gain? And why had she fled at the last moment? Vegeta decided he would find out. He knew full well that he would have no success in falling asleep that night until he had made sense of everything. With new resolve, he stood, shut his eyes, and searched for her energy. If he was not mistaken, she was currently in her laboratory, and he made his way toward it.

Silently, he entered the building, and he followed the traces of her energy to her personal workroom. With the door slightly ajar, she sat at her desk in darkness, the light of her laptop's screen illuminating her face. She did not spot him until he rested one hand on the cluttered surface of her desk, and when she finally did acknowledge his presence, she started. A few papers fluttered to the floor.

"Vegeta," she said, swallowing. "Hi. My sleep schedule is off, so I decided to at least do something productive until I got tired. I guess you're having the same problem."

Vegeta disregarded her attempt at smalltalk. "What are you trying to do? Why did you run? Explain."

The woman merely stared. The Saiyan could tell that she was contemplating her answer.

He smirked at her, slightly amused by her loss for words. "Are you afraid?" He rounded the desk and stopped just a few inches from her chair. "Answer me."

She crossed her arms and frowned petulantly. "I have every reason to be afraid, you know. You're not exactly the most level-headed guy. But, no, I'm not afraid."

"Don't lie to me. Why did you run?"

Spinning her chair to face him, she met his gaze directly. "I left because I knew you didn't know what you were doing, that's why. I figured I'd give you a chance to figure out what you wanted before you did something you regretted."

"You thought I was going to hurt you." Vegeta realized that he might have hurt her indeed. He would never know whether he would have regretted it or not.

"Fine. I admit that the thought crossed my mind. That doesn't make the reason I gave you any less true, though. And I'm not lying when I said I wasn't afraid. You know what? I probably should be, but I'm not. I know you're going to try and get me to tell you what I thought I was doing. But to tell you the truth, I don't really know." She paused and scanned his expression for a possible response. "I don't know what I'm trying to do. I'm a bit irrational, and you're going to have to accept that. A rational person would stay away from you."

He couldn't argue with that.

"I don't know how much you know about stuff like this, Vegeta, but I can tell you that most of the time it isn't rational. It usually isn't something you choose or expect. Life is funny and ironic that way. You have to expect the unexpected. It's easier to deal with when you realize you can't control or explain everything."

"What the hell are you rambling on about, woman?"

"I'm saying that I like getting to know you and that I care about you. Most people would say that feeling that way is against my better judgment, but I don't care."

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, skeptical and confused.

"For fuck's sake, I might as well be talking to a wall!" She buried her face in her palm.

"I know you want something from me. I know you have some sort of strange fascination with me. What I want to know is why."

"You just really don't get it, do you?" Something between a sigh and a snarl rose up from behind the hand that covered her face. "I don't want anything _from_ you. It's just you. There's nothing more to it, and it doesn't have to make complete sense. I suppose that, if you're really looking for some sort of explanation, I could say that I like having you around because you make my life less boring. I don't even know."

Vegeta growled, then struck the desk with his fist. More papers jumped into the air, then fluttered to the floor.

"Hey! Look here!" Bulma snapped, standing up. "Don't you go around breaking my stuff just because I'm not saying what you want! I have no idea what it is you think I should say. I bet _you_ don't even know!" She jabbed his chest with her finger.

Before she could draw it back to her side, Vegeta grabbed her hand. "Just tell me what the fuck it is that you want!"

"I want you to kiss me again, and then I want to go and get a good night's rest for once!"

By the hand that he held, he pulled her to his side. With his other hand, he turned her face towards him. He kissed her, forcefully at first, but more gently as his body responded to Bulma's touch. Her free arm found its way around his waist.

Their lips parted. "I want you to be happy." She paused to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I want you to stay." She kissed his cheek. "What do you want?"

"I want you to leave me alone," he answered, pressing her lips to his once more.

"Well, that's a mixed message if I've ever gotten one," Bulma remarked, faintly smiling. She stepped away from the Saiyan, then reached down to close her laptop. "Goodnight, Vegeta. It's one in the morning, and I have to work tomorrow. I've taken too many days off as it is."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Two things! First, a good friend of mine, LadyLuckRogue, recently published the prologue to a story called "Frozen Truths." It handles Vegeta's past under Frieza, and after talking to LadyLuckRogue and brainstorming about it with her, I can promise you that it will prove a gripping, epic tale! If you like "The Mistaken Wish," you may like "Frozen Truths," and you should check it out! Here's the second thing: after I, your author, finish "The Mistaken Wish," I hope to add a bonus chapter in which I answer frequently asked questions pertaining to my story. I thought it would be a cool way to interact with my readers and give them a way to enjoy the story in new ways even after I finish it. If you have a question, don't hesitate to ask in a review or in a personal message. I'll give you a couple examples of some questions to get you guys thinking: "How do you choose chapter titles?" "Why did you write 'The Mistaken Wish' from Vegeta's perspective?" or even "Could you explain the symbolism behind (insert thing that catches your attention here)?"


	31. Ritual

Vegeta awoke later than he had expected. It had passed ten o'clock before he got out of bed. For a while, he simply sat on the edge of his mattress trying to conjure up some way to busy himself for the remainder of the day. Although he had slept off his drowsiness, he nevertheless had difficulty stringing one coherent thought after another. Simultaneously, his head felt overfull and utterly empty. Ultimately, he gave up trying to think, and he donned his battle suit, armor, gloves, and boots methodically. He realized he had not worn them in a while—weeks, perhaps—once he put them on.

The woman had made the armor set he currently wore. If he had found the set lying around on one of Frieza's ships, then he would have assumed without hesitation that one of Frieza's engineers had manufactured it. The woman had done a fine job replicating the technology; nothing about her designs had ever felt unnatural for him to wear. Armor such as that he currently wore had been one of the few constant companions of his life; it was one of the few things that had remained the same both before and after his father had handed him over to Frieza. Seemingly, this one constancy would carry over even here, on Earth, and Vegeta appreciated it immensely, even if subconsciously. With something akin to passive enjoyment, he would outfit himself as if performing a sacred ritual.

Descending the staircase, Vegeta determined that he would fetch a cup of coffee and something to eat before he did anything else. The Briefs usually left warm coffee for him, and he could take whatever he wanted from their pantry or refrigerator. Surely, a caffeinated drink and some food would aid Vegeta in thinking of some way to occupy himself. He sat down with a large mug, a plate of salami, and a loaf of bread.

Nearby, Vegeta sensed a sizable energy source; he recognized it as Yamcha's. From what he could tell, Yamcha was approaching; the Saiyan hoped he would only pass through and leave him alone.

Yamcha's footsteps paused. It seemed Vegeta did not have luck on his side. "Vegeta," the other man said, announcing his presence.

The Saiyan sipped his coffee, ignoring him.

Yamcha sighed. "I see you've got your armor on. I don't know if you're going anywhere, but if you're not leaving, I thought I'd tell you about a place you can go to train. There's a desert and some mountains just south of the city. It's close to where Goku landed. No one will bother you there even if you fire energy blasts. Capsule Corp. owns the land, so nobody asks questions. I go there sometimes."

Vegeta set his coffee down. "Why are you here speaking to me and not there preparing yourself for the androids' coming?" he said, not once looking at Yamcha or even glancing over his shoulder.

"Mrs. Briefs invited me over for breakfast."

A muffled, vicious chuckle shook Vegeta's shoulders.

"What's so funny?"

The Saiyan spun around in order to watch Yamcha's reactions. "You're looking to fuck the woman's mother now that she herself won't have you." He spoke with as little tonal variation as he could manage, but he could not contain the sneer that spread across his face.

Much to Vegeta's amusement, Yamcha sputtered with rage, then calmed himself with a single deep breath. "Yeah, right. Saying the most offensive thing possible just because you can—Saiyan humor, I guess."

"Perhaps. It's quite telling, though, that you offered no rebuttal."

Yamcha sighed again. "Think what you want. I'm pretty sure you know what you're saying is complete bullshit, but if you're serious, then I'm sure there's nothing I could possibly say to change your mind."

"No need to fret, Earth man." Vegeta shrugged as he loaded a slice of bread with salami. "The old woman practically throws herself at any man within ten feet of herself. You will have her soon enough, I'm sure."

"Don't talk about Mrs. Briefs that way even if it's just to piss me off. She's done a lot more good for us than either of us deserve," Yamcha half growled.

"So you've already had your way with the odd blonde creature, and apparently she did well by you?"

Visibly, Yamcha snapped. "At least I don't get pity sex from a girl on a rebound!"

For a little over a second, Vegeta let Yamcha's words settle. Then, nearly spitting out his coffee before he had the chance to swallow, he laughed wildly. "Ha! And there it is." He set his mug down with a dramatic gesture. "You lost your temper later than I expected. I'll admit I was surprised. No matter—waiting only heightened my amusement." He waved his hand dismissively. "You may leave me, Earth man. I will go to the place you specified."

"I don't need your permission to leave," Yamcha spat, struggling to regain his composure. "You think you can talk like that and just get away with it?"

Vegeta laughed again. "If you're offering, I wouldn't deny myself the pleasure of a fight. I am quite bored."

"No way."

"As you please." With slow, deliberate movements, the Saiyan stood, strode to the kitchen counter, then set down his dirty dishes. "Clearly, whatever delusions you have cause you more distress than I ever could anyhow."

"What do you mean by that?"

Vegeta headed for the hallway and the front door. "No more chatter. If you'll excuse me, I have training to do, then a woman to fuck senseless." He leaped into the air.

A resounding "_Fuck you!_" followed him.

As he shot through the air, Vegeta snickered maliciously to himself. Tormenting Yamcha had put him in a good mood; the man made himself such an easy target for taunting that Vegeta could not resist the temptation. For one reason or another, Yamcha had some special interest in his affairs, specifically those that had anything to do with Bulma. Vegeta, if he did not remain entirely indifferent, met this fact with slight annoyance only. Yamcha could never pose any threat to him, and the man's paranoia rendered his presence rather humorous and therefore tolerable. Not only this, but Yamcha had, after all, inadvertently shown him someplace to train.

Vegeta landed atop a plateau that overlooked West City. A gust of dry wind struck his face and rustled his hair, and when he opened his mouth to inhale deeply, air rushed into his lungs, expanding his chest and raising his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly, relaxing and focusing his energies. Now that he did not have to channel his energy towards preserving his body from the hazards of intense gravity, he could direct it outward freely. It almost surprised him how much power he could charge into his fingertips. With perfect control, he formed the energy he had gathered into a sphere, letting none of it escape and disturb the still atmosphere.

His blood sparked, tingling every capillary in his hands. The sensation was familiar, but one that he nevertheless marked consciously after having not experienced it for some time. Strangely, he noted a similarity between it and the sensation produced by an intimate touch. He wondered why he drew such a comparison, and why presently of all possible times. The orb of energy hovering above his palms flickered and crackled as some of its mass broke away. Before he could make any grievous mistake, he released the ball into the sky and off into space. Sighing with vexation, Vegeta returned his arms to his sides.

He lowered himself into a crouch and peered over the edge of the plateau's face. Again, his thoughts raced and scattered, slipping away each time Vegeta tried to catch hold of one or another. Hoping to regain his focus, he began to breathe deeply according to a set rhythm. The exercise allowed him to narrow his mind down to a single memory. It was not a memory useful to his current predicament, but at least it was coherent. He thought of a time on one of Frieza's stations on the edge of the galaxy—a little over twenty years ago, if he had guessed the correct chronological placement.

_Nappa placed a tasteless ration down beside Vegeta's right arm. Keeping his eyes fixed on the tablet he held inches from his face, the young prince took the ration and nibbled it disinterestedly. "Nappa," Vegeta said, breaking the silence. "Explain to me what this text is describing." Rigidly, he extended the tablet to the older Saiyan._

"_What are you reading?" Nappa asked as the tablet exchanged hands._

"_The legend of Bejita, the seventh Super Saiyan. The text says that Bejita destroyed a sun in order that its orbiting planet dies a slow, freezing death. It's funny because the people on the planet will not realize what he has done until a whole half hour after it happened. Bejita did this out of vengeance. This I understand, but I do not understand why watching a woman die warrants such a retaliation. One woman's death is nothing. I do not see how Bejita's action follows logically from the previous events."_

"_I don't think I know the legends any better than you do anymore, My Prince," Nappa replied after a pause. "Remind me—did the woman have a name?"_

"_Yes. Her name was Shallotte. Why does it matter?"_

"_I remember this legend now," the senior Saiyan mused aloud to himself. He returned the tablet to Vegeta before continuing. "Shallotte was Bejita's mate. He is very angry that she was killed."_

"_I understood that much," Vegeta half groaned. "It was still just one woman, though. Bejita should not have let it upset him. He sounds soft. I don't see how he was ever able to transform." The Prince tossed the tablet away onto his cot. He scanned Nappa's expression; something seemed to preoccupy him. "Explain quickly. Do not waste my time."_

"_Think of your father and mother. The bond you feel toward them is a little like the one a man feels toward his mate. The bond between a man and a woman is usually tighter, though. Does that make sense?"_

"_I suppose. If I had found the person who assassinated my mother, I would've tortured him, then left him to die in the dust." Once the Prince finished off his ration, he got up from the floor and sat himself on his cot, resting his back against the wall. "How long do we have aboard the station?" he asked._

"_A couple weeks."_

"_Reserve the training chamber for me at once. For the whole duration of our stay."_

"_I already did while you were sleeping."_

"_Good. It seems you have learned since last time." The young prince glanced at the tablet that rested near his feet, then returned his gaze to Nappa, who had begun to shuffle out of his armor. "Nappa," Vegeta called, claiming his attention, "did you have a mate?"_

_The older Saiyan paused. "No," he answered. "Nothing formal."_

"_What about Raditz?"_

"_He was too young. And he was a third-class anyway. They were denied the ritual privileges. If Raditz had gotten involved with a woman, it would have been informal like all the other third-class pairings."_

_Vegeta responded only with a short "hm." He stared at his feet, lost in thought for a couple moments. "I've seen Raditz with many women," the Prince stated flatly. "Is he seeking a mate?"_

_Nappa snorted and shook his head. "I don't think so. He just likes to fuck around with them."_

"_So he's wasting time. Why does he do it? He is a fool."_

"_It's more necessary for him than you think."_

"_It isn't necessary. He won't die if he doesn't. He is a fool."_

_Nappa snorted again. "How old are you, Vegeta? You can't be older than ten."_

"_You're correct. I'm ten."_

"_You'll understand Raditz better in a year or two."_

"_You're wrong. He is perverted, and I have no desire to understand him. There are no more Saiyans with the exception of Raditz's long lost brother. Alien women—if they even _are _women as we define them—are disgusting. I don't know how Raditz can bear to touch them."_

"_He has interesting tastes—I'll give you that," Nappa remarked, nodding. "But you've probably noticed that some species look better than others. I will show you some of the best ones if you'd like. If not, you can look into it on your own time. The species profiles are good for more than just figuring out the best way to kill things."_

_Vegeta raised one eyebrow inquiringly._

"_Let's just put it this way: if there's an opening about this size"—Nappa touched his middle finger to his thumb, forming a ring—"then you can fuck it."_

_The young prince's eyes widened. He had no response._

_Nappa then proceeded to divulge, in magnificent detail, the most intimate secrets of Saiyan anatomy, physiology, and sexual practice._

_Vegeta listened with cool detachment. "I already knew half of that," he muttered bitterly after a quiet minute had passed. "I don't know why you bothered."_

"_I thought the information would be useful to you, My Prince."_

_Suddenly, Vegeta kicked the tablet off of his cot and onto the floor. Its screen shattered. Nappa immediately began to clear away the broken glass. He would not question the Prince's actions._

"_I have no life to live but that of a third-class! Humiliating!" Vegeta spat._

_Nappa waited for the young man to elaborate._

"_You must understand. You were an elite. How could I be forced into perverted, meaningless couplings for no reason other than my own desperation? I will be neither softened nor ruled by unchecked desires. Frieza had better find a suitable mate for me. I will demand it. If he thinks I will degrade myself to Raditz's level, he is wrong. He would not expect me to unless he means to torment me on purpose."_

"_I wouldn't expect too much, even if Frieza favors you," the elder Saiyan commented darkly._

_Vegeta stood up, fetched his boots, then shoved his feet into them with an obvious moodiness. "Frieza always tells me to control myself. He will acknowledge my rank and find me a mate. He will not play games with me as he did with my father. I won't stand for it." The Prince kicked the door as he waited for it to slide open. "I will go to the training chamber," he announced, and Nappa let him go without a word._

Vegeta kicked a small rock off the ledge of the plateau. Before it had the chance to strike the ground, Vegeta vaporized it with an energy blast. Remembering the training chamber aboard Frieza's border station only reminded him the non-operational gravity simulator. He sighed deeply. He hated the openness of cool, desert air. Inside the gravity chamber, Vegeta did not have enough freedom or energy to think; he went there not just to train, but to tranquilize himself. Instead of struggling for his life, here he stood reminiscing as if caught up in some sentimental rapture. He could scarcely remember a time when he had felt so utterly distracted and scattered.

In the valley, the tower of the Capsule Corp. Headquarters rose above all the other points that pricked the horizon. Bulma would be there. Doubtlessly, Vegeta could force her to aid her father in repairing the gravity simulator. He desired nothing less than to see the woman, but he would have to risk her presence if he valued his sanity.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Remember to check out _Frozen Truths_, a story about Vegeta's past under Frieza by LadyLuckRogue, a good writer friend of mine! After talking to LadyLuckRogue and brainstorming with her, I can promise you that _Frozen Truths _will prove a gripping, epic tale! She already has the prologue and first chapter posted. If you like _The Mistaken Wish_, you may like _Frozen Truths,_ and you should check it out!

Remember that after I, your author, finish _The Mistaken Wish _(don't worry, though, I still have a ways to go!), I hope to add a bonus chapter in which I answer frequently asked questions pertaining to my story. I thought it would be a cool way to interact with my readers and give them a way to enjoy the story in new ways even after I finish it. If you have a question, don't hesitate to ask in a review or in a personal message. I'll give you a couple examples of some questions to get you guys thinking: "How do you choose chapter titles?" "Why did you write _The Mistaken Wish_ from Vegeta's perspective?" or even "What have been your greatest influences as a writer?"


	32. Making Sense

Vegeta stepped into the lobby of Capsule Corp.'s Headquarters. Wide glass windows let the bright, pale autumn light flood the spacious room. Vegeta considered the lack of shadows neither heartening nor auspicious. More than one person stared at him once he had crossed their line of sight. In response, he did all within his power to betray absolutely no emotion or intention as he searched for Bulma's energy and the best possible route to it.

"Excuse me, sir," a man's voice called out from behind a tall desk.

Vegeta turned and glared at him menacingly.

"Can I, uh, help you?"

The Saiyan strode up to the desk. The scrawny secretary, who barely matched Vegeta's height, trembled when the fully-armored Saiyan eyed him directly. "Take me to Bulma Briefs," Vegeta ordered, his voice low.

"Do you have an appointment?" The secretary glanced at the computer screen in front of him. "I don't see anything scheduled for right now."

"I don't need one."

A middle-aged woman shoved the male secretary away from his place at the desk. "Listen, mister," she barked at Vegeta, "you need an appointment if you want to see Dr. Briefs. Do you have a badge? Back up, and let me see some ID unless you want me to call security."

"That won't be necessary," Vegeta hissed.

"I don't like that look you're giving me," the woman snapped. "I don't think you're up to any good. Badge now or you're out of here." She picked up a phone.

"Wait! Don't call security just yet!" the other secretary interrupted. "I think this is Vegeta. Did you get Dr. Briefs' memo? She said to contact her immediately and _not_ to call security."

"You've got to be kidding me," the woman sighed. "Just look at this guy. He obviously doesn't even have a badge. I've already dialed security."

"No!" the scrawny man gasped. He fumbled with another desk phone. "Dr. Briefs, I think Vegeta is here to see you," he stammered into the receiver.

Vegeta folded his arms over his chest, snickering to himself. Glancing to his side, the Saiyan saw that two men dressed in black and navy blue approached him. One of them reached out to take him by the elbow, and Vegeta shot him such a malignant, threatening scowl that he hesitated. The other guard reflexively rested his hand on the pistol belted to his waist.

The lanky secretary, his skin now gleaming with nervous sweat, dashed out from behind the desk. "It's all right. We called you by mistake," he said to the guards, waving his arms frantically. "This is Vegeta—the guy from the memo! He looks just like the picture."

"Yes, it's all right, everyone!" a voice called out.

Vegeta turned, recognizing the voice as Bulma's.

"Come with me, Vegeta," she said calmly, but firmly. "Don't mind any of these people." Eying the guards boldly, she repeated, "It's all right, everyone."

The Saiyan watched the guards retreat timidly; Bulma's assurances had melted away much of the room's former tension. Spinning on her red heels, she headed towards the elevator off to her side. Her tight gray pencil skirt restricted the length of her strides, and Vegeta caught up to her after hardly a second's passing. Together, they stepped into the elevator.

Once the door slid shut, Bulma's expression hardened into one of anger. "What did you think you were doing, Vegeta? You can't just march up and demand to see the vice president of a major corporation—especially if you don't have a ID badge, not to mention a passport or driver's license! And you came in your armor, of course. You just had to make a spectacle of yourself!"

"You had prepared your workers for my arrival, regardless," he retorted contemptuously.

"Whatever. It's because I had to be prepared for whatever weird thing you might do. I'm glad I did send my staff a memo. Probably saved a few lives!" she stormed with slight sarcasm. She drew in a deep breath and adjusted her ruffled red blouse as she released a sigh. "Okay. You can tell me what this is all about once we get to my office. Once that door opens, just keep quiet and put on a face that wouldn't make a kid cry. All we have to do is walk down the hallway. I don't want to cause any more scenes."

"Your presence seemed to have as dramatic an effect as mine did," Vegeta commented caustically. "Your underlings must fear you."

"Underlings? Don't even go there." She straightened her posture and tugged her skirt towards her knees. "Okay. Door's about to open."

Wordlessly, they exited the elevator and made their way down the hall. In front of them stood a decoratively engraved double door; Vegeta assumed it marked the entryway to Bulma's office. He had known abstractly of the woman's power and prestige on Earth, but the material symbols thereof brought a new depth to his knowledge. Walking just behind her, he watched her take one shuffling step after another; her awkward gait, exaggerated by her impractical shoes, struck Vegeta as ironic—ironic that a woman of global prominence hardly knew how to carry herself. He wondered if she was conscious of how wantonly she swayed her rounded hips or if she did it intentionally.

She entered a passcode, swung one door open, then waited for Vegeta to slip inside. After shutting and locking the door behind her, she approached a large desk at the center of the room, then perched on it slightly, crossing her ankles in front of her. "So. What's going on, Vegeta?"

The Saiyan had begun pacing in front of a wide window that overlooked the city.

"You wouldn't go near a bunch of Earthlings unless something was up," she continued as he kept pacing silently.

Once he made a few more rounds, he stopped, confronted Bulma, then glared at her directly. "You must return to your laboratory and work alongside your father to finish the gravity simulator. I refuse to wait any longer."

Stubbornly, Bulma crossed her arms under her breasts. "You can't be serious. No."

"I did not offer you a choice in the matter." He clenched his fists at his sides.

"I'm done here in just a couple hours. Can't you wait that long? What's this really about?"

Vegeta could feel his face heat with rage. "No waiting. I just want the simulator fixed. That is all!"

"You need to keep it down, Vegeta. If people hear you shouting, they might try to call security again." She pointed at an embroidered couch that rested against one wall. "Take a seat over there, take a deep breath, and tell me what's going on without shouting. I've got an appointment in an hour and a half, so make it quick. You're really anxious, and you need to relax before you give yourself an aneurysm."

Something about this place seemed to play into the woman's delusion that she held any degree of authority over him. "You dare—an aneurysm?—presumptive woman!—orders!" he growled incoherently. He had resumed his pacing. To his chagrin, he found that he had stopped beside the couch Bulma had indicated, and, if he had not frustrated himself enough, he found that he had fallen into the cushion with as little resistance as an obedient child. He rested his elbows on his knees, squeezing his head between his palms. Bulma let him sit quietly for a moment.

"What's up, Vegeta? It's okay to let it out. I know this isn't just about the gravity machine. Your training helps you deal with the stuff going on in your head, and the more stuff going on, the more reckless you get. You probably already know that it's a pattern for you. It's obvious enough that other people notice it too."

Unblinkingly, Vegeta stared at his boots. Whatever he felt at the moment had paralyzed him; he made no effort to analyze and provide an account of his interior state.

"I just realized something. Maybe it will make you happy." Bulma uncrossed her ankles and stood up. "Ever thought that you've gotten dependent on the gravity machine because nothing else can push you hard enough? It means you've gotten stronger. I can sort of see how that might be frustrating, though, for somebody who uses physical stress as a coping mechanism."

"You think my training is little more than a _coping mechanism_?" Vegeta snarled cuttingly. He had spoken in the lowest register of his voice, and one could not have heard him unless they listened for his response.

"Of course it's more than that. I just said that because I know that the reason you're here is isn't just because you're impatient. You and me both know you aren't that childish. Another person might just give in to your demands because they were afraid of your Saiyan-sized temper tantrums. I'm not going to do that. I'm not afraid to respect you. I'm going to talk this through. I hope you'll treat yourself with the same dignity and not trivialize your feelings."

"My _feelings_?" the Saiyan muttered in the same deep tone. "What nonsense."

Bulma sat down beside him.

He removed one hand from the side of his face and bore into her coldly with his black eyes.

Delicately, she brushed his shoulder. "What's going on, Vegeta?"

He flinched at her touch. "Do not touch me! You're driving me crazy! I can't think straight anymore. Any trace of focus I once had has left me entirely. I haven't been myself in weeks." He straightened his posture, then gripped Bulma's upper arm, forcing her to face him directly. "It is your fault!"

"You're not crazy," was Bulma's simple, confident reply. " Not in the way you're afraid of, anyway. If you're talking about what I think you are, then it's completely normal."

"How can I be sane when I can do nothing but let a woman invade my mind? I let you do to me more than Frieza had ever done over the course of twenty years. If that does not betray mental instability, then I don't know what does." The grip he held on Bulma's arm tightened. "None of this makes sense."

"Not everything has to. I've told you that before." She reached out and put one hand behind the Saiyan's neck, urging him closer. "And it makes more sense than you think it does anyway."

He hesitated. He knew she could not move him herself; she could only urge him one way or the other. Part of him wondered how he could resist her at all; almost everything about her made him wild. She was beautiful, competent, brilliant, courageous. She had acknowledged him and his universe as none had before her. Perhaps it did make some sense after all, as she had said. Vegeta realized that he wanted it to make sense.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

He could not speak his realization; it still remained but a half-developed thought, and not one he could share readily under any circumstance. Instead, he merely relented to the woman's touch and fell into her arms. He buried his face in the velvety skin of her neck, and he couldn't help but taste it. Lightly and lazily, he began licking the tender spot where her pulse raced.

"What are you doing now, Vegeta?" A subtle, giddy laugh hid itself in her voice. He felt its vibration against his cheek. "I've still got an appointment in less than an hour."

Frieza himself could have an appointment with her; he wouldn't care. After releasing his hold on her arm, Vegeta let his hand wander to the front of Bulma's blouse. She caught his hand there with her own, and she entwined his fingers with hers as she lifted his arm away and dragged it around her slim waist.

"Mm, this is nice and all," Bulma purred, "but this isn't really the best—"

The Saiyan caught the last word with his lips. The woman did not resist; on the contrary, she parted his lips with her tongue almost immediately. Vegeta received her eagerly. He felt a tug at the base of his neck; the woman had begun to play with his hair idly. A bittersweet scent seeped from her pores, and Vegeta intuitively understood that she reeked of desire. In an instant, he remembered his own desire, and he inwardly condemned his now painfully restrictive undergarments with a fleeting curse.

A cough broke out from the direction of the doorway.

Vegeta's eyes flew open and darted to the source of the noise. He met the gaze of the scrawny secretary.

"Uh, Dr. Briefs?"

Bulma jerked away from Vegeta with enough speed to exceed his Saiyan expectations for her. "Oh my God," she gasped, her agitation increasing with every syllable. "This had better be important!"

The secretary blushed so fiercely that his pimples seemed to vanish in the rosiness that spread across his face. "Your appointment might be here a bit early," he muttered in one breath. "I tried to call you."

"Email! You ever heard of it?" Bulma howled.

"I sent one, but I, uh, wasn't sure you got it."

"Well, I know all about it now, so you can leave. One word, by the way, and you're fired—and _blacklisted_!" she screeched. She had gotten up to hurl her threats down the hallway, for the secretary had already turned to flee by the time she had uttered the word "fired." After catching her breath, she addressed the Saiyan still seated on her couch. "Get your ass back to the house and eat fucking everything in the fridge!"

Vegeta smirked wickedly.

"What's that look for? Get going! I'll help with the goddamn gravity machine when I get home."

"_Underlings_," he taunted.

"Oh my fucking God."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Remember to check out _Frozen Truths_, a story about Vegeta's past under Frieza by LadyLuckRogue, a good writer friend of mine! After talking to LadyLuckRogue and brainstorming with her, I can promise you that _Frozen Truths _will prove a gripping, epic tale! She already has the prologue and first chapter posted. If you like _The Mistaken Wish_, you may like _Frozen Truths,_ and you should check it out!

Remember that after I, your author, finish _The Mistaken Wish _(don't worry, though, I still have a ways to go!), I hope to add a bonus chapter in which I answer frequently asked questions pertaining to my story. I thought it would be a cool way to interact with my readers and give them a way to enjoy the story in new ways even after I finish it. If you have a question, don't hesitate to ask in a review or in a personal message. I'll give you a couple examples of some questions to get you guys thinking: "How do you choose chapter titles?" "Why did you write_ The Mistaken Wish_ from Vegeta's perspective?" or even "What have been your greatest influences as a writer?"


	33. Composure

**WARNING: This chapter contains mature content of a sexual nature. A conscious effort to avoid excess lewdness was made, but reader discretion is nevertheless advised.**

* * *

Inactivity had diminished Vegeta's appetite, and when he had returned to the Capsule Corp. mansion, he could hardly finish off even a quarter of the refrigerator's contents in spite of the urge he had to gorge himself. After eating his fill, he had wandered over to the laboratory, and he had watched Dr. Briefs from afar, gauging how far along he had come on the gravity simulator's repair and modification. As well as this, he had wanted to assure himself that the woman would keep her word to aid her father.

He had sensed the appearance of the woman's energy on the premises of the mansion approximately three hours after he had arrived there himself. Although he had contemplated seeking her out and personally ensuring that she would do as he had bidden her, he had ultimately decided against it. The memory of what had transpired that afternoon had brought him to that conclusion. He had developed absolutely no pressing desire to lose hold on his composure in her presence once again. He had determined that, if he confronted her, he would prepare himself beforehand for whatever move she might make. The woman had a talent for teasing private information out of him, he had to admit; on whatever future occasions he might face her, he would surrender nothing but what he allowed of his own free will.

Unsure of how to stave off ennui for the remainder of the evening, Vegeta had retired to his room early. On impulse, he had rifled through every drawer of both his dresser and his nightstand, removing their contents, organizing them, and then replacing them according to a prescribed order. After a shower, he had gone to bed, and he had slept fitfully through the night.

When he woke, dread cast its shadow over him. With the gravity simulator still out of commission, this day's events would likely repeat those of the previous one. He decked himself in his armor, and he sat down at the kitchen table, sipping his customary coffee and downing a couple plates of food. He half expected Yamcha to appear as he had yesterday. Thankfully, though, the man was nowhere to be seen or sensed.

Vegeta considered training in the desert, but he reconsidered when he remembered how much difficulty he had had focusing there. Instead, he figured he could spend his time flying and testing his speed; doing so required a considerable amount of strain, but not nearly as much strict attention as wielding raw energy. Upon finishing his breakfast, he left forthwith.

He found the atmosphere cold, and bitterly so the further he ascended. Luckily, his suit worked sufficiently well to protect him from the elements. Only his face stung as the frosty air licked across it. In spite of this, though, Vegeta felt abnormally lighthearted; in fact, his mood had remained relatively serene ever since he had drunk his coffee. Casually, Vegeta remembered how the woman had brought him a jacket and warm drink on that chilly night. It struck him as odd that his mind had bothered to store away something so trivial in his memory.

As he beamed through the sky, hours passed; he had kept track of his changing position in relation to the rotation of the earth and where the sun hung over the horizon. If he turned back now and maintained his current speed, he would arrive at Capsule Corp. just after dusk; it seemed convenient enough. He could eat something, take a shower, then sleep; his sleep would likely grant him more rest than it had the previous nights, for he had not remained entirely idle.

Once he lighted on Capsule Corp.'s grounds, Vegeta decided that, if the woman's father had not completed the simulator, he would fly tomorrow as he had today, for he could perform such training successfully even with minor distractions. Entering the kitchen, he found a note on the refrigerator. It read: _Hi, Vegeta! It's Bulma's mom! We saved lots of leftovers for you! Look on the bottom shelf. I guess you're training somewhere else while you're waiting to use that ship. You're so dedicated, but I still miss seeing you every day! Come visit me sometime, and we'll have tea! XOXO_. Vegeta did not care to guess the meaning of the "XOXO." He found the ample leftovers and scarfed them down. As he ate, he felt heat return to his chilled extremities. Following his meal, he disappeared into his guestroom.

Immediately after closing the door, he stripped, donned the shorts he would sleep in, and threw a towel over his shoulder in preparation for his nightly shower. Tonight in particular, he looked forward to it, having already decided that he would indulge himself by taking longer than usual. There was no better way to spend the remainder of his evening. Imagining the sensation of hot water pouring down his back, his flesh still tender from his prolonged exposure to the cold, he made his way down the hall.

He hesitated for a moment when he saw that Bulma leaned against the bathroom door, blocking him. Her ankles crossed in front of her, she wore only the lace-trimmed flame-red nightgown that he had seen adorning her body the other day. He did not want to encounter her so soon, and when he did encounter her, he would have preferred that meeting be on his terms alone. He feared that she would do something or other to spoil the first decent day he had had in a long time.

"Stand aside, woman," he grumbled, resting his hand on the doorknob. He would avoid her now if he could.

Smiling wryly, Bulma grasped his forearm. "Hey, Vegeta."

He could have easily pushed her aside, but instead he merely studied her curious posture and expression. "Why are you here?" he asked sternly. "Has your father finished the repairs?"

"Nope, not yet." Her thumb stroked the underside of his arm idly. "I want to show you something," she added.

Vegeta's eyes narrowed. She had some scheme, and he would find it out.

"I cleaned my room," she continued, her tone taking on an indistinct throatiness. "Don't you want to see? You said it was really dirty before."

Instantly, Vegeta understood. She was offering herself to him. Such offers never came freely; his mind raced to guess what she could possibly desire from him. It almost made him angry to think that she would use his recent madness as a means of extortion.

"Come on," she urged, pulling him toward her bedroom.

He followed her. Whatever she might want, he reasoned, she surely did not have the might to make him surrender it. Vegeta grinned, realizing that he would get something he desired—and he did desire it, terribly; it astonished him how quickly and easily he acknowledged this fact—and that he would pay no price.

Locking it carefully, Bulma shut the door behind them, then rushed to turn on a dim bedside lamp. "See? Clean," she said, pointing but indicating nothing in particular.

The clutter that had littered the room had all but disappeared or assumed its proper place. Impressively, the entire enclosed space seemed to have grown larger. The woman, who now stood smugly at the room's center, had even dusted every surface open to the air. Vegeta stepped toward her after folding his towel and laying it atop a dresser.

Beneath his right foot, the plush carpet felt strangely rigid and crusty. Once he jerked his toes away, he examined the spot whose light tan contrasted with the carpet's beige fibers. "Woman, what is this?"

Bulma glanced at the stain, then blushed. "That's peanut butter. I was doing some work on the floor, and I dropped my sandwich, okay? Deal with it."

"This room is _not_ clean!" Vegeta exclaimed without thinking.

"I spent hours picking up, so just be quiet." She paused, then advanced on the Saiyan, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist. "The room inspection isn't why you're here anyway. You know that. We got interrupted yesterday." She kissed him. As she did so, she petted the smooth muscle on each of his sides.

He forgot about the carpet. Taking her jaw in his hand, he pried her mouth open and deepened their kiss. Nothing he had ever tasted likened to the way she tasted, but even though her flavor struck him as utterly new and foreign, it nevertheless seemed entirely native. Unknowingly, he had thirsted for her for as long as he could remember. When she broke away from him, his chest ached with frustrated longing. He would have to struggle much harder than he had anticipated to maintain his composure in her presence.

Her hands wandered over his stomach, following the peaks and valleys of his sculpted flesh. "Damn, Vegeta," she mused. "You're hot." The tips of her fingers caught the waistband of his shorts.

Vegeta tracked her glazed, straying eyes with his own. She put on a very convincing show of flattery. "I know what you're trying to do," he stated austerely.

"No shit," Bulma laughed softly. "I have hard evidence you're okay with it, too." Her little finger teased his erection, and she tugged slightly on his shorts. "How about you take these off? Unless you want me to do it."

The woman's confidence mystified him. "Do as you please. You seem to enjoy yourself overmuch," he scoffed.

"What's so weird about that?" Kneeling in front of him, she peeled the fabric away from his hips. "Damn," she mused again.

He did not answer her. Instead, he merely watched her take him into her hands. She seemed to know what she was doing; only once or twice had he come across women who had known how to handle him outright without any instruction. The woman's skill testified, first, to her experience, and second, to the apparent similarity between Saiyan and Earthling anatomy.

She glanced up at him, fluttering her eyelashes. "It's okay to show that you like it, you know," she hummed. Tempting a reaction from him, she brushed his tip with her tongue. The sensation was electric, and he shut his eyes tightly.

"Remove that ridiculous nightdress," he commanded.

"Whatever you say, Your Highness." Bulma pulled the red satin over her head, tossed it to the floor, and revealed that she wore nothing beneath it. Not once did her expectant, smoldering gaze leave his frozen one.

Vegeta's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed as subtly as he could. Viewing images of Saiyan women produced one effect, but the real presence of a woman—wholly indistinguishable from a Saiyan female apart from her energy signature and obvious lack of a tail—produced another effect entirely. Lust kindling every vein, he regarded her ravishing form as she stood, turned, and crawled onto her bed. He could hardly believe she existed. Unable to remember how he had gotten there, he found himself lying beside her on the mattress, fondling her breasts and nibbling her collarbone. Never before had he delighted in a woman's body as he did now.

"Mm," Bulma moaned. "Having fun?" She stroked and rustled his hair with one hand and caressed his hard shoulders with the other.

"Be quiet," he growled.

Suddenly, she frowned. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"I told you to be quiet." He pinned her beneath him and parted her legs with his knee.

"Afraid someone will hear us or something?"

Vegeta only scowled at her.

"Whatever. You're weird," she sighed, reaching around his neck to bring him down to her lips.

He relented and returned her kiss forcefully. With the passing of each second, he could feel ferocity build within him. His hand drifted from her breast down along the curve of her hip, stopping at the peak of her thighs. She groaned loudly into his mouth as he tested her slick entrance, and on impulse, she ground herself against his hand. In response, Vegeta broke their kiss and glowered at her. "Be still," he hissed.

"What?" she asked breathlessly.

He ignored the question and alternatively focused on guiding himself into her. Before he could cry out, he clenched his jaw tightly and crushed any sound he might have made between his teeth. Although the woman moaned into his ear, he hardly heard her, overwhelmed by sensation. Taking hold of her waist with a fearsome rage, he remembered his task.

Bulma reached for one of his hands. "Vegeta—touch me," she panted, "touch me—here." Futilely, she urged his arm upward.

He swatted her hand away, then caught her wrist, restraining it. "No," he heaved. "Shut—_up._" Apparently, his grip hurt her, for her expression betrayed pain, and an anguished shrillness tainted her cries. Hoping she would fall silent, he released her. The instant he did so, her hands flew to his hips, her nails raking his skin.

"_Vegeta_," she gasped. "_Please_."

His blood seethed; he felt its heat in his eyes. "Why are you _so_"—he inhaled sharply—"fucking _loud_?" he snarled. "Compose yourself!"

"_Vegeta_," she begged. She held him tightly, her ankles crossed behind his back.

He gave up trying to silence her. Delicious tension, approaching euphoria, drowned out all other sensory stimuli, and he no longer cared what she did. Hiding his face in the hollow of her shoulder, he gasped out his climax, his voice ragged with pleasure. Panting against her skin, he stilled to catch his breath.

"Did you just—?"

Vegeta forced himself into composure before looking up to glare at her. Only with difficulty could he maintain that glare, however; a deep satisfaction tempted him to soften his expression, but he had already resolved to refuse the woman that satisfaction. Before he gave into such a temptation, he crept away from her, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned to her.

Her weight shifted on the mattress. Once he sensed her hand on his shoulder, he stood up and went to fetch the towel he had lain folded on top of her dresser.

"Hey—wait!"

He peered askance over his shoulder. If he was not mistaken, her mien consisted of traces of frustration and anger. When he met her eyes, however, she started and veiled her agitation with a smile. Vegeta almost grinned to himself at the reception of that concrete confirmation of the woman's defeat. Whatever she had wanted, she seemed to have lost her opportunity to seize it from him. He could puzzle out what precisely it had been at his leisure.

"Don't you want to stay?" she purred seductively, patting the sheet beside her with one hand and stroking herself with the other. "I'm okay with messing around a bit more if you are."

"I take showers at this hour," he replied flatly as he wrapped the towel around his waist. Swiftly, he slipped out of the room. Just as swiftly, he escaped into the bathroom, and he took particular caution in locking the door.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Three things this time! First, a question. I like to do a bit of art occasionally, and my story has inspired me to do some illustrating. I thought I'd ask you, the readers, which scene from _The Mistaken Wish_ you would most like to see. For a preview of my personal artistic style, simply look to the cover art I posted for this story.

Second, may I remind you again to check out _Frozen Truths_, a story about Vegeta's past under Frieza by LadyLuckRogue, a good writer friend of mine! After talking to LadyLuckRogue and brainstorming with her, I can promise you that _Frozen Truths _will prove a gripping, epic tale! She already has the prologue and first chapter posted. If you like _The Mistaken Wish_, you may like _Frozen Truths,_ and you should check it out!

Lastly, I reiterate that, after I finish _The Mistaken Wish _(don't worry, though, I still have a ways to go!), I hope to add a bonus chapter in which I answer frequently asked questions pertaining to my story. I thought it would be a cool way to interact with my readers and give them a way to enjoy the story in new ways even after I finish it. If you have a question, don't hesitate to ask in a review or in a personal message. I'll give you a couple examples of some questions to get you guys thinking: "How do you choose chapter titles?" "Why did you write_ The Mistaken Wish_ from Vegeta's perspective?" or even "What have been your greatest influences as a writer?"


	34. Peace of Mind

A long shower only prolonged and intensified Vegeta's serenity of spirit. He thought of the woman, and he did so with careless delight. In the water that washed over his body, he felt her warm flesh against his. Closing his eyes, he let the memory repeat itself over and again; it brought him such elation that he nearly questioned whether or not the events of that night had truly happened at all. It must have happened, however; Vegeta's mind, when it played tricks on him, never tricked him with benign, blissful fantasies. In any case, Vegeta's sense of content overpowered any habitual attempt to deny, doubt, or despair. He would go to bed happy, and he had a rare confidence that he would sleep well.

When he finally exited the bathroom, glancing down the hallway in the direction of his guestroom, he discovered something strange. Light poured out from his room's entrance. Vegeta distinctly remembered shutting off the lights and locking his door before he had left; all evidence incontrovertibly indicated that someone had broken in and violated his privacy. He did not need to guess who had done it. Anger hastened his step.

Customarily, Vegeta made his bed immaculately each morning. Now, however, he saw that the woman had mussed the coverlet and sheets, both creased as if she had taken a seat and failed to smooth the fabric upon leaving. On top of the bedspread lay Vegeta's shorts—the same ones he had worn before the woman had removed them. Instantly, Vegeta realized that he had forgotten them in his rush to escape her room. He cursed himself for his negligence under his breath. He cursed again when he discovered a slightly crinkled piece of paper resting on top of his shorts. The messy script it bore, in all capital letters and lacking any punctuation, read: _YOU FORGOT YOUR GODDAMN SHORTS YOU SELFISH NARCISSISTIC FUCK_

Naturally, Vegeta vaporized the note in his hand immediately upon reading it. As he went to lock the door, he broke into another litany of curses as he fully cognized the fact that no security device could confound that cunning woman. Fastening the lock had always been no more than a formality, a habit, an empty solace. Doubtlessly, she could trespass and tamper with his things any time she wished. Vegeta thanked himself for keeping everything in his room in such tight order; with each object and its place memorized, he would notice any change he had not initiated himself. He stripped the bed and ransacked his drawers, looking for any trace of the woman's intrusion.

He found nothing, and he put everything away.

Relieved, he made his bed, then slipped between the sheets. It had passed midnight by now; once he curled up on his side and began to relax, weariness overtook him. He stared at the bare wall bleary-eyed, and his thoughts wandered without restriction. Once more, memories of the woman's closeness intoxicated his senses. A warm tingle emanated from his fingertips as they remembered the yielding softness of her ample breasts. He dwelt on it for a few long moments before he realized that the very same woman he had so enjoyed, no more than a couple of hours ago, had profaned his space.

One last time, he cursed his negligence. And why had she called him selfish? Of all possible insults, why that one? Surely, she did not dare believe that, after attempting to manipulate him with her body, he had some _obligation _to surrender to her. How could she tempt him to bed her, but then lash out at him for doing so? If he had injured her, she would have had an understandable reason to lash lash out. But he had not injured her, and if he had, he imagined she would have used much harsher words than "selfish" or "narcissistic." The moment before Vegeta fell asleep, he concluded that he would extract a confession from the woman the next time she had the audacity to confront him.

He woke later than he would have liked. He should have anticipated that, considering the events of the previous day and night. It made no difference, though; he performed his morning rituals, then went downstairs in search of coffee and breakfast. Upon entering the kitchen, he noticed that Dr. Briefs had taken the chair he, Vegeta, customarily took. At least it wasn't Yamcha.

"Good morning, Vegeta!" he greeted cheerfully, laying down a reading tablet.

The Saiyan poured himself a cup of coffee and said nothing.

"I finished the repairs and upgrades on the ship," Dr. Briefs went on just as cheerfully. "Once you're done here I can give you a little tour."

Vegeta spun around, acknowledging the older man with eye-contact and a nod. Unable to take his habitual seat without saying something, he began striding to and fro across the kitchen, sipping his coffee every few seconds.

Dr. Briefs broke the silence."My wife left some pancakes and sausage for you."

Vegeta merely continued pacing, feigning disinterest.

"I think they're in the microwave," the older man mused as he stood and headed toward the counter.

Seeing his opportunity, the Saiyan sat down. A few minutes later, Dr. Briefs set a large plate of food and a fork and knife before him. Vegeta did not look up from his breakfast when the older man took the chair beside him and began a feeble attempt at conversation.

"I remember that you said something interesting about Saiyan engineers at dinner about a week ago. They were raised in environments conducive to their talents after being tested shortly after birth, right?"

"Yes," was Vegeta's simple answer.

"What did that involve, if you don't mind my asking?"

The Saiyan found himself answering the question before he had time to prevent it. "It was the same for all children set aside for their intelligence. They were sent to train under the masters of their field once no longer dependent on others' care."

"They were taken away from their parents?"

"Yes, if the parents were relegated to other duties in our empire. But, as intelligence, like all traits, runs in the blood, the children of the most intelligent Saiyans often found themselves training under their own relatives."

"It sounds like everything was very controlled," Dr. Briefs commented after a pause.

"It was." Vegeta swallowed the last few bites of his breakfast.

"I imagine some people objected to it."

"If they did, they were stripped of their class. Third-class Saiyans were not regulated with as much care as their superiors, and if one objected to one's station, one could join their ranks." Vegeta's voice had taken on a scoffing tone. After taking the last sip of his coffee, he got up, gathered his dishes, and set them on the counter next to the sink.

Dr. Briefs sunk his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and smiled at Vegeta. "Let's go to the ship."

Together, they stepped out onto the lawn. The ship stood in its usual place, its new paint and improved exterior gleaming in the morning sun. Once Dr. Briefs opened the hatch, Vegeta raced inside, and the older man followed him casually.

Indicating the command console, Dr. Briefs said, "You'll find everything here virtually the same. I only made some minor software upgrades. I think it's pretty self-explanatory to someone like you. As for the gravity simulator, it should be able to exceed five hundred times Earth's gravity without too much trouble. I'd say anything beyond six hundred is experimental, though. If you ever run it at that level, I'd like to hear from you in case troubleshooting is needed. You're the only one who can really test it, anyhow."

Vegeta examined the console carefully. He stomped his boot into the floor, noting that material of the tiles gave him more traction. "I will train now," he announced.

"You don't want to see what I've done with the fuel cells or the propulsion system?"

"No. I've seen enough. I will train now."

Dr. Briefs shrugged his shoulders. "All right, then." As he turned to leave, he added, "Be careful. Extreme gravity is dangerous even for you Saiyans, as we've seen time and time again. Bulma says you can be reckless sometimes. She talks to me about you all the time, you know."

Vegeta twitched at the mention of the woman's name.

"At first, I was skeptical about making a simulator that exceeded the capacities of my first model, I'll admit, but working on this for you has really inspired me. It's been a pleasure. Stop by my lab if you think of anything else you might want me to build, all right? I'm always looking for a new challenge; I think you understand. It's good to have you back at full—"

"Silence, old man!" Vegeta interrupted with a snarl.

Dr. Briefs started and gave the Saiyan a confused look.

"I will train now. Leave me unless you wish to be crushed by the simulator."

"Oh, excuse me," Dr. Briefs mumbled apologetically as he exited the ship clumsily.

Annoyed, Vegeta snapped the hatch shut. The old man had his uses, surely, but he groveled before him in the most undignified, fawning manner—more than likely at the behest of that damned woman. At least the gravity simulator was operational again. He could lock himself away and train, and he could finally conduct himself meaningfully. The time of idle thoughts and idle actions had ended; his routine would restore his peace of mind.

Blankly, Vegeta stared at the simulator's command screen, unsure of what gravity level to subject himself to. Four hundred and twenty-five times Earth's gravity had nearly killed him, he remembered shamefully. He had no particular desire to die today; he was too happy, as strange as that was. Four hundred had been his previous limit, but since he had not trained using high gravity in so long, he concluded that even that would prove too much. Sighing, he settled on three hundred and fifty. After the pressure had descended upon him, he tested his strength against it, and he quickly realized that he had selected the correct gravity level.

He trained until dusk. Exhausted and famished, he headed straight for the kitchen once he had finished. As he sat down with the plentiful leftovers the woman's mother had left him, Vegeta unconsciously sought out Bulma's energy; he had not forgotten his resolution to confront her the next time she crossed him. Yet when he focused, the Saiyan detected no trace of her on the premises of Capsule Corp., neither in the upper rooms nor in the laboratory. Faintly, he caught her essence in the direction of the city center; she had not come home from the headquarters, it seemed. Perhaps she was avoiding him; he would not put such a tactic past that conniving woman. She would build her strategy and bide her time as he would his.

Smiling to himself, Vegeta imagined her sitting on top that expansive desk of hers, plotting and scheming, her legs crossed just enough to offer a generous glimpse up her skirt. Her suggestive posture was one of her plans, of course, and she would no doubt practice it in his absence. The thought of it aroused him fiercely. And just after he gave into the temptation of his wandering mind, stretched out across his bed, he cursed himself, feeling as if he had somehow allowed her some small victory. It made no difference, however; he belonged to himself again.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I like to do a bit of art occasionally, and my story has inspired me to do some illustrating. I thought I'd ask you, the readers, which scene from _The Mistaken Wish_ you would most like to see. For a preview of my personal artistic style, simply look to the cover art I posted for this story.

Again, I reiterate that, after I finish _The Mistaken Wish _(don't worry, though, I still have a ways to go!), I hope to add a bonus chapter in which I answer frequently asked questions pertaining to my story. I thought it would be a cool way to interact with my readers and give them a way to enjoy the story in new ways even after I finish it. If you have a question, don't hesitate to ask in a review or in a personal message. I'll give you a couple examples of some questions to get you guys thinking: "How do you choose chapter titles?" "Why did you write_ The Mistaken Wish_ from Vegeta's perspective?" or even "What have been your greatest influences as a writer?"


	35. Mistakes and Expectations

Even after more than two weeks' passing, still Vegeta had yet to confront Bulma. Every evening had been the same: he would finish his training around dusk, go inside for dinner, then scan the premises for her energy during his nightly shower. Not once had he sensed her presence on the Capsule Corp. grounds before he went to bed; each time, he had instead read her faint energy signature emanating from West City's center. He could make no mistake about it now—she was avoiding him purposefully. If she came home at all, she must have done so either while he trained or slept. He figured it was the latter, for his mind had strayed to her occasionally during his training.

The long days he spent alone tranquilized him pleasantly at first, but that pleasant stillness slowly morphed into a foreboding silence. Vegeta would have no more of it. After going through his evening routines, he, instead of going to bed, prepared himself for a long night, dressing himself in a sweatshirt and a pair of athletic pants. Suppressing his energy instinctively, the Saiyan stalked Capsule Corp.'s main floor for an ideal place to lay in waiting. She had to come home sometime. If she did not, then he could either wait for her again tomorrow night or seek her out in the city as he had before. He hoped he would not have to resort to that second option; prolonged human interaction agitated him, he knew the walls of Capsule Corp.'s mansion much better than its headquarters, and here he could ensure his privacy.

An armchair lodged in the corner of a parlor served Vegeta's purposes relatively well. From his perch there, he had a view not only into the hallway, the kitchen, and the main lobby, but also out onto the front lawn via a bay window. He held himself in an uncomfortable position as to ward off weariness. Ever since he had resumed his gravity training, exhaustion practically forced him into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment the clock struck eleven. He appreciated the regularity, but it made focusing on the woman's energy considerably more difficult as the night drew on. No amount of tiredness could shake his determination, however.

Sure enough, Vegeta detected Bulma's nearing energy no more than an hour past midnight. He straightened his posture, shifted to the edge of his seat, and watched the window attentively. Barely thirty minutes had passed before he sensed her presence near the garage. From there, she would head either into the house or the laboratory. If the former, he would no doubt glimpse her crossing the lawn. He did. She entered through the main door, and he watched her disappear into the kitchen.

As he crept toward the kitchen himself, he made every assurance that not even the hint of a sound betrayed his step. Leaning against a wall on the opposite end of the room, he regarded her while she pulled an assortment of bottles from a top cabinet. She mixed their contents over ice along with some milk. Just as she turned, resting her backside on the kitchen counter and raising her glass to her lips, Vegeta announced his presence.

"Woman," he said.

Bulma inhaled sharply, and shock shook her perceptibly. Her glass crashed to the floor. It shattered. "Shit," she cursed finally. She swallowed, drew her shaking hands into loose fists, then turned and fetched a broom and a dustpan. Lowering herself to her knees, she began to sweep the broken glass off of the hardwood.

"You have been avoiding me," Vegeta accused, his voice low. "Even now you won't look at me when I speak to you."

In response, the woman shot him a direct, simmering glare.

Vegeta returned it, his lip curling into a slight sneer. The loss of her temper was imminent.

"I wondered when you'd show your sorry face," she began caustically. "You should be glad I left you alone because only God knows what I might have said. It's not exactly smart to mouth off at your questionably suicidal Saiyan houseguest."

Vegeta felt the first flares of his own temper. "_What_?" he growled.

Bulma lowered her eyes to the mess on the floor, clearly regretting what she had just said.

The Saiyan exhaled moodily, calming himself. "I have done nothing to offend you. If anything, it is I who should take offense. You sought to manipulate me, and now you blame _me_ for your own failure. You are either delusional or foolish."

Once she dumped the broken glass into a recycling bin, she met Vegeta's gaze once more. More than anything, his words seemed to have confused her. "Manipulate you?" she asked, flustered. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Don't toy with me," he threatened. He stared at her for a moment, but her confusion did not seem to subside. "You can't have forgotten what you did, but I will remind you anyhow. You whored yourself out to me, then you insulted me for taking up your offer. I want to know what you hoped to gain by this."

Bulma's jaw slackened. "You did _not_ just say that."

"Say _what_? I only repeated your own poorly-constructed scheme to you."

"You know what? Fuck you, Vegeta." She stomped up to him, her heels clacking against the hardwood, and stopped hardly a foot from his face. "It's enough to _treat_ me like a whore, but to straight up call me one—! Fuck you!" In vain, she threw her right hand at his cheek and her left fist at his chest.

He caught both by the wrist and laughed in her face.

As the woman struggled to break free from the Saiyan's grip, tears tears rose to her eyes. She neither sobbed nor sniveled; instead, her tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she beamed hatred at him, biting her lower lip and burying a scream in her throat. The combined effect of the fiery wrath and dewy hurt in her eyes dazzled Vegeta. He released her, then folded his arms over his chest.

Her hands fell to her sides. "I'm not a whore," she stated weakly, but nevertheless firmly.

After a moment, Vegeta asked flatly, "Then what were you trying to do? What did you want from me?"

Her fingers twitched with the temptation to fly at him again. "Are you fucking serious? Do you even need to ask?"

Vegeta was serious, and his expression revealed no more, no less.

"Oh my God. You _are _serious."

Vegeta remained frozen.

"Oh my God. Are you—? Shit. You actually thought—! Fuck you!" Her shoulders trembled with rage, and her voice had lowered to a bitter rasp. "I am _not_ a whore. I was _not_ just letting you play with me like some sex toy to, what, _manipulate_ you? Bullshit. What the fuck could you possibly have that I would want? You don't even have anything! You only have what _I_ and my family _gave_ you. All you have is yourself. What else could I have wanted but you? Is that so fucking weird? And I actually thought that you wanted me too. But _no_, none of that ever even occurred to you! This whole time, you never thought this was about anybody but yourself. I'm not a person—I'm just a _thing_ that gets you off. Fuck you, you self-centered asshole! Excuse me for giving a shit about you, for wishing you the best. I know now that it was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made. I don't know why I ever expected anything different from you."

Vegeta blinked in disbelief, hastily processing the implications of Bulma's words. "I," he stammered, "I don't under—"

"No. Don't even start. Shut up. You have no idea what's been going on. I've had to pay off the press for your little visit to my headquarters. I've had to stay late every night, calling everyone and their brother so I can blackmail them. You're lucky no one's attempted a full-blown investigation. And that's probably only because I've paid millions to shut everyone up. But it doesn't matter if I tell you this or not. You won't give a shit either way. Because I don't matter to you!" She paused to wipe her tears away with her forearm.

"Woman," Vegeta barked before she could begin again, "I don't understand! I never injured you. You are overreacting."

The Saiyan dodged the open palm aimed at his face at the last second. "Fuck you! I have every right to be as angry as I am. I gave you a place to live and someone to talk to even when you didn't deserve it. My dad and I have taken weeks out of our schedules working on things for you. If it wasn't for me and Yamcha, you might have bled out and _died_ when you blew up the ship. So when you opened up to me, I thought you were finally coming to appreciate me as someone you could trust. You even said you couldn't stop thinking about me. But no—you just randomly decided that you wanted to fuck me. That was all. So you took advantage of me once you got your easy opportunity, you had your way with me, and then you just left with that smug, self-satisfied look on your face. I thought there was more to you than that, but I guess I was wrong. I've had this idealized picture of you in my head all this time. At least you were enough of a prick to make me realize how heartless you really are before it went any further. Fuck you! And to top it all off, I bet you couldn't have gotten me off even if you had bothered to try. For all I know, I was the first anatomically compatible woman you even saw naked!"

"_Enough_, you insolent creature!" Vegeta interrupted with an authoritative shout. Digging his nails into his biceps, he stood sputtering angrily and wordlessly. He wanted eviscerate the woman, whether verbally of physically, but instead floundered about in his own enraged stupefaction.

"_Ugh_!" Bulma spat, spinning around. "I _really _needed that drink you made me drop. I need about three of them now." She returned to the counter and fetched herself another glass. "What, Vegeta? You just going to stand there and stare at me? Get the fuck away from me."

"I will do as I please, woman!" Petulantly, he sat down at the kitchen table.

Bulma drained her first glass, then poured herself another.

Vegeta thought of something to say at last. "You must think yourself very wise to drink yourself silly in my presence."

The woman shot him a withering scowl that would have rendered a weaker man spineless. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Of course I wouldn't. I have my dignity. You, however, might start ingratiating yourself to me once you've lost yours. Did you not say that you wanted me? Yes, you did. That certainly explains why you made so much noise before. Shame on me for not having understood sooner."

"Just go away, asshole." She drained her second glass.

"No. I have missed you. I want to get a good look at you while I can. Your strange shoes, for example: they make no sense, but I think I understand their purpose; they force you to rotate your hips in a most provocative manner when you walk."

Bulma rolled her eyes as she filled her glass a third time. "You're seriously doing this right now. You think you're being funny? Go to Hell. You're killing my buzz. I should just go to bed. But I want to get drunk."

Vegeta ignored her and carried on. "Let me set one thing straight for you. I am not ignorant of your anatomy or how it responds to stimuli. I made it my business to know the physical structures and functions of the races I went to destroy. And as your race relates so closely to mine, there is a particular affinity between them, and that grants me a rare intimacy of knowledge."

Bulma snorted into her glass. Clumsily, she set it down, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Right, sure. I almost feel embarrassed for you. You're so awkward and clueless. You don't know a thing about relationships. At first I thought it was cute, but now it's just sad. Go away." The slightest slur had entered her speech.

"I have no respect for your petty Earthling social practices."

"Well, obviously. Like right now. You're only taunting me because you couldn't respond to any of my accusations. You don't want to admit that you were wrong, so you're just poking fun and hoping I'll get mad and forget. You're so predictable." She snorted again. "I have better social skills than you when I'm fucking drunk."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed. Subconsciously, he knew she was right, but he refused to consciously acknowledge that intuition. He taunted her only because he knew of nothing better to do. It was an excuse to be near her; he had not seen her in weeks. He wondered if she knew that.

"That sure shut you up. I guess I win this round." She pushed her glass into the sink gracelessly. The resulting clashing sound nearly made the Saiyan flinch. "I'm going to bed while I can still go up the stairs without stumbling," she announced, departing without putting her liquor back in its cabinet. "You can go fuck yourself."

Vegeta stood from his seat at the kitchen table and followed Bulma into the hallway. He had gotten the confrontation he wanted; nothing remained but for him to sleep. By now, only a few hours remained before the first light of dawn. When he reached the staircase, he saw that the woman had barely ascended halfway. She placed each foot in front of the other slowly and deliberately, but haphazardly; with her absurd shoes, Vegeta knew a fall was forthcoming. He caught up to her just before she tripped.

"You're obstructing my way," he said with dark amusement.

"Fuck you!" she groaned, her voice muffled by the carpet.

He bent over, wrapped one arm around her waist, hoisted her up, and balanced her against his side. With her folded over his forearm, he began to carry her the rest of the way up the stairs.

Bulma struck his knee with her fist in protest. "What the hell!"

With calculated abruptness, he dropped her once they reached the summit. "You are a pathetic woman. And you are very foul-mouthed. You use vulgar words constantly."

She struggled to stand, propping herself up against the wall. Her glazed expression wavered somewhere between confused and frustrated.

Vegeta left her and vanished into his room. He had not foreseen how vastly the woman's expectations had differed from his own.


	36. Snow

When Vegeta had finished his gravity training for the evening, stepping out onto the lawn, he discovered something he had not yet seen on Earth. During the hours he had spent locked away inside the ship, enough snow had fallen to reach up to the ankles of his boots. Without thinking, he shuffled his feet in the ice, turning snow over his toes. Although the sun had already set, the white light reflecting off of the ground's frozen blanket brightened everything it touched. Although only lightly, snow still fell in feathery flakes; absentmindedly, the Saiyan watched it float to the earth.

The ship had sheltered the crisp grass beneath it from the wintry precipitation, and Vegeta took a seat there. He huddled his knees to his chest to shield himself from the cold. It did not take long for his body to cool off from his training, and the chill gradually crept into his sore, weary joints and flesh. The sensation suited him somehow; he felt it uncannily matched the aesthetic of his empty inner state. He enjoyed it abstractly in a way he did not fully understand. It did not matter; nothing seemed to. He just wanted to sit, meditate, and watch the snow.

Over the course of the hour, the storm had tapered off to intermittent flurries. He guessed that the bulk of the accumulation had occurred while he trained, for hardly an inch more had fallen since he had settled himself under the ship. If he judged correctly, it was approximately eight o'clock. He surveyed the premises for any sign that he had lost track of the time.

Across the lawn, he glimpsed Bulma heading from the direction of the garage. She had just returned home from her headquarters, apparently. Ever since his visit over a month ago, she had usually returned around or past midnight. Tonight, however, she had come home comparatively early. He regarded her with the same rapt attention he had given the snow.

Vegeta had not seen her for weeks. Since their late-night confrontation in the kitchen, they had spoken to each other only once, and that second encounter had been a week ago at least.

After the woman's outburst, Vegeta's first impulse had been to forget about her entirely. If she truly wanted no more to do with him, then he could finally train in peace, dedicating his full attention to more meaningful matters; no longer would he have to worry about her intrusions and distractions. As attractive as forgetting about her had seemed initially, though, Vegeta found himself unable and perhaps even unwilling. He had remembered what she had said, what she had implied. She had not founded her fascination with him on any utilitarian purpose, but rather on lust and curiosity. Vegeta knew well that neither lust nor curiosity were ever easily sated. If he wanted to pique either of the woman's, he had more than a nonexistent or ill-fated chance at doing so. His own lust and curiosity convinced him that he should at least make an attempt. When outside of the gravity chamber, he could hardly prevent every other thought from straying to her.

Only a few days had gone by before Vegeta had again installed himself in the parlor, sitting and waiting for the woman in the darkness. Within moments of coming home, she had headed for the kitchen and the liquor cabinet, and he had followed her there. She had seemed surprised to see him, but not frightened. No glassware had ended up shattered on the floor.

"_You're awake," she said flatly as she poured milk over her iced drink._

_He strode past the table and leaned against the counter beside her. Unwaveringly, he watched her sip from her glass._

"_I'm still mad at you, you know." Her glass contained only ice now, and she set it down. "Go away. Unless you want to apologize."_

"_I may have misjudged," Vegeta began smoothly, turning to her and resting one hand on her waist, "but I know better now."_

_Bulma grabbed his wrist. "Get your hands off me. And that wasn't an apology."_

_Vegeta leaned in for a kiss, but the woman dodged. "This is your doing. I need not apologize."_

"_Hey! Stop it!" She spun out of his arms._

_The Saiyan let her escape, supposing that granting her a semblance of power would ultimately work toward weakening her resolve to resist._

_Moodily, she disappeared into the hallway. "What makes you think," she fumed over her shoulder, "that you can just start getting fresh with me after refusing to apologize and not talking to me in weeks? You haven't done a single thing to try and make things better. Selfish prick. I'm still dealing with your shit at work."_

_Vegeta caught her at the foot of the staircase, reaching from behind and grasping her just above her hips. He pulled her backwards against his chest and nestled his nose in her loosely curled hair. Inhaling her scent only reminded him how much he had craved her closeness. "I won't harm you," he purred into her ear. "I will give you what you want."_

"_I want you to let go!" She struggled, and Vegeta set her free._

_He frowned at her._

"_Just who do you think I am, Vegeta? You can't just come up and grab me. It's not sexy. It's awkward and creepy. And so is prowling around the house watching for me. You're not helping your case at all."_

_Defensively, he folded his arms over his chest. "What, then, would you have me do, woman?"_

"_Oh, I don't know," she answered sarcastically, throwing her hands up in the air. "Maybe say 'hello' instead of creeping up on me, ask me about my day, give me compliments, show interest in my projects, treat me like a lady. You know, stuff _normal_ people do. You could start by apologizing, though!"_

"_Nonsense," Vegeta spat._

"_And you could use my name instead of just calling me 'woman' all the time. It's not like you don't know my name. Everyone does. I'm Bulma Briefs, and I have two doctorates, not counting the honorary ones. I'm a genius, and I'm beautiful and successful. Truth be told, I'm too good for you. You think you can get with the one of the most desirable women on the planet acting the way you do? Yeah, right! I have my pride."_

"_Your previous actions have already invalidated your words. _You_ came crawling to _me _before, did you not?" the Saiyan gibed. "You are quite fickle, _woman_."_

"_You're impossible," Bulma sighed with bitter resignation, turning and taking several steps up the stairs. "Goodnight, Vegeta. I need to sleep. And if I haven't said it clearly enough yet, I'll say it straight out: _No_." She had uttered that last syllable with a distinct iciness._

_Vegeta feigned a laugh. "I will let you go. By denying me, you only deny yourself."_

"_Whatever," she retorted dismissively._

Thereafter, the both of them had retreated to their rooms. Vegeta had not considered their exchange a total failure; in fact, he had noticed with particular interest that the woman's anger had simmered down since they had spoken last. If anything had indicated this fact, the comparative absence of tears and profanities had. Eventually, he thought, she would seek him out as she had done so many times before. If she did not, he could fall back on his initial plan to forget her and her distractions. Either outcome would prove advantageous, and Vegeta let his solitary routines consume the passing days.

Now, perhaps weeks later, Vegeta sat beneath the capsule ship, devoting his quiet attention to the snowfall and the distant figure of the woman who had just materialized in it. He could see her warm breath rise in a pale mist that contrasted with the darkness of the evening sky. As she continued along the path to the front door, she would pass within a few yards of the ship. When she paused and glanced in his direction, Vegeta wondered if she could feel his eyes upon her. He might never know. Their gazes connected.

Ever so slightly, Bulma's lip curled upward. "What are you doing under there, Vegeta?" she asked, her fur-trimmed boots skimming away the snow in front of her.

Vegeta gave no answer.

"Aren't you cold? You have a jacket, you know. How long have you been out here?" She had bent over, resting her gloved hands on her knees, in order to address him levelly.

"My suit keeps heat close to my body," he stated coolly.

Bulma sighed and shook her head. "I'll tell you what—I'll get you some hot chocolate. How about it?"

For a moment, Vegeta stared at his boots, deliberating.

"You can stay out here or come inside. I'll bring it out to you if you want to stay. It's your choice. So—do you want the hot chocolate or not?"

He nodded.

"Going to stay there?"

He nodded again.

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes." She stood up straight, then sighed once more.

When she was out of sight, Vegeta rested his forehead against his knees and closed his eyes as he waited. The numbness that had settled over him had not left. Although his heart rate had quickened just enough for him to notice, he felt strangely detached from the physical sensation.

Not ten minutes later, Bulma had returned. Treading as carefully as possible, she stooped down, slipped under the ship, then sat beside Vegeta. She extended a large mug to him, which he took, then unfolded his jacket, which she had slung over her arm. "Here. Why don't you put this on?" she said.

He set his beverage carefully on the grass beside him, then shuffled into his jacket. It had retained some of its warmth from the heated indoors, he noticed.

"This might be a silly question, but you never know. I don't know what all the other planets are like," Bulma began, breaking the silence. "You've seen snow before, right?"

"Yes," Vegeta answered after tasting his hot chocolate. "It snowed often on Frieza's home planet."

"Is that what you were thinking about?"

"No," was the response he gave, although he could not remember what he had thought and not thought of over the past hour.

"What were you thinking about, then? You've always got something on your mind. You know how I feel about stuff like that: better out than in."

Vegeta dodged her question by asking one of his own. "You arrived home earlier than usual. Have you finally silenced your press and competitors?"

Bulma's eyes widened as if surprised that he had posed such an inquiry. "Yeah, actually. It's been letting up these past few days. They've been more interested in Capsule Corp.'s work on the gravity simulator for the International Space Station. We just did a press release for it at the end of last week." She smiled brightly, then laughed. "At least now they're more interested in my technology than they are in the spandex-wearing Saiyan I made out with in my office."

"Spandex?"

"It's a stretchy fabric. It looks a bit like the stuff your suit is made out of."

"What has that got to do with anything?" the Saiyan mumbled over his steaming mug.

She laughed again. "It's half the reason people stared at you, that's what. Let's just say that most people here aren't used to seeing that much muscle definition in tight pants."

"Ridiculous," Vegeta grumbled. "Earthlings are vulgar and trivial."

"You have no idea." She rested one hand on his shoulder. "How's the training going? My dad hasn't heard from you, so I'm guessing there's no trouble with the machine."

"I can train easily at the level I was at before my"—he hesitated—"injuries."

"That's good!"

"It is shameful. Do not fawn over me, woman."

"Oh, come on, Vegeta. It's just small talk."

"Precisely. It is meaningless." He finished off his hot chocolate, then stared into the empty mug.

Bulma took the mug from his hand and set it on the ground beside her. Then, she took his hand in hers, pressing it lightly. "Do you want to talk about what's on your mind instead? Something is up. You've been sitting out in the snow doing nothing, and you're acting all subdued."

Vegeta scowled. "You presume too much."

"Then how about you go inside and take a warm shower instead of sulk out here?"

"I meditate. I do not sulk," he muttered rigidly.

"Is 'brood' a better word, then?" Bulma asked playfully. "It's somewhere between 'meditate' and 'sulk.'"

Vegeta rolled his eyes. "You are insufferable."

"You don't really think that." She scooted closer to him.

Except for the occasional snowflake or two, the sky had cleared altogether. Vegeta was content to sit quietly and stare into space for a few moments, thoughtlessly savoring Bulma's touch. If he had felt "subdued," as she had put it, then her presence served to ameliorate that feeling. Clearly, her frustration with him had largely subsided, as he had predicted. He could only guess what might have gone on in her head to restore her favor.

"I've got an idea," she announced suddenly. "Let's go inside. You can take a shower and go to bed. Tomorrow is the weekend, and I don't have to go anywhere for once. You can do your training, and then you can have dinner with me in the evening—if you're okay with tweaking your schedule a bit, that is. Just me and you. You can show up in the kitchen around five. You'll get something fresh instead of leftovers. What do you think?"

Skeptically, he considered the idea. It did not seem so terrible; it came with the promise of food and a yielding woman in a controlled, foreordained setting. He nodded, indicating his assent.

Bulma smiled. "Okay! Let's get out from under here before we freeze our asses off."


	37. Control

**WARNING: This chapter contains mature content of a sexual nature. A conscious effort to avoid excess lewdness was made, but reader discretion is nevertheless advised.**

* * *

At precisely five o'clock, Vegeta appeared in the kitchen after exchanging his soiled training clothes for clean, casual ones. A strange, pungent scent hung the air, no doubt coming from the boxes of food stacked on the table. Bulma was in the process of opening them when Vegeta sat down, examining both her and the strong-smelling entree she placed in front of him.

Bulma must have seen the wariness present in his expression, for she began with an explanation instead of a greeting. "It's coconut curry. It's a special seasoning, and it's very good. Well, at least I think so! I ordered it from one of my favorite places downtown." She took a chair beside him.

Vegeta had eaten far stranger things; it did not concern him too much. He gave more attention to the woman's liberally low-cut sweater than he did the flavor of his food.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

He merely continued eating, reaching for one box after another.

"I guess that's a 'yes.'" She smiled and elbowed him in the arm. "You feeling better than you did yesterday? What was up with that, by the way? You never did say."

Vegeta did not respond. He had kept his eyes on the woman's neckline, and his thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

Bulma let out an exasperated sigh. "As nice as they are, stop staring. It's not polite, Vegeta."

Annoyed, he glared at her. She had pervaded his fantasies of late so insidiously that he had trouble shifting his focus to anything other than her physical form. The anticipation of what might take place after dinner alone threatened whatever powers of self-control he had left.

"I asked you a question," she continued. "What got you so down yesterday?"

He supposed he could tolerate her questions if answering them meant encouraging desirable behavior from her. "Nothing," he asserted. "Taking time to gather my thoughts is a common occurrence. Do not pester me."

"Just because it happens a lot doesn't mean that it's normal or good."

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

The Saiyan dismissed her comment with a contemptuous grunt.

Bulma rolled her eyes. "I bet part of it was because you were lonely. You hadn't talked to literally _anyone_ for weeks. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I'm right."

"Do you think of nothing but my alleged 'feelings?' Is it some obsession of yours?" he muttered irritably between mouthfuls. "It is tiresome to me. If I attended to every one of my emotional affectations, I could control nothing, I could do nothing, and I would render myself useless. And yet you seem to have the time not only to attend to yours, but also to whatever you falsely attribute to me."

Setting down her utensils, she pondered what he had said for a moment. Vegeta took advantage of her inattentiveness, using it as an opportunity to appreciate her voluptuous anatomy undetected. "Hm," she mused, "that actually lets me in on more than you think it does. It makes sense, really. You've had to deal with a lot of shit in your life, and if you thought about it all the time, you'd be so wrecked you couldn't function. Kind of makes me wonder, but I know that that sort of stuff is stuff you would need to talk about on your own terms."

Vegeta sat back in his chair, his hunger satisfied. Hoping to alleviate some of the dull discomfort of his arousal, he shifted his legs restlessly. The woman could go on about whatever she liked; he couldn't care less.

"Are you done?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered concisely.

"Damn. You had, like, ten times more than me, and you still finished before me." Flirtatiously, she twisted a finger in her hair. "You in a rush or something?"

With a sigh of impatience, he crossed one knee over the other. "This was a time for eating, not talking, but you insisted on the latter."

"Well, I still have to finish, so why don't you talk a little bit? Because awkward silences aren't fun, and it's not like I'm just going to let you sit there and ogle me without giving me anything in return."

"I will not be manipulated. Finish quickly, or do not finish at all."

"So you _are_ in a rush!" She grinned maliciously. "Anxious to do something else?"

He smirked, then shrugged his shoulders. "I knew from the beginning that this whole ordeal was a disguised invitation to your bed. If it were not, I would not have agreed to it. Earthling social practices are not so subtle or devious as you believe."

Bulma covered her mouth, swallowed hurriedly, then laughed. "Yeah, Vegeta. You figured it all out. You're way too clever for us!"

Vegeta growled curses under his breath.

"I'm not shy when it comes to sex, Vegeta, if you didn't know that already," she went on after a long sigh. "If I wanted that, I would've just asked. What if I invited you to have dinner with me because I wanted to talk to you?"

His eyes narrowed, and his scowl soured frighteningly.

She laughed again.

"You think it wise to play games with me, woman?"

"Oh, don't worry, Vegeta. We can go upstairs soon. I figured you'd be expecting that. I don't know how it was for you Saiyans, but here on Earth, most people like to get to know each other before they have sex, even if it's just a little bit. That means talking, learning things about each other, building a connection, getting outside of yourself."

"Ridiculous," Vegeta interjected.

Bulma ignored him and went on. "In fact, I think one of the reasons you're interested in me at all is because we've spent some time talking to each other. Strangely enough, I don't think you're the type of guy who's interested in completely casual sex. You've implied that Raditz was in to that sort of thing, and you look down on him. So I'm doing you a courtesy by getting to know you, because I know that's really what you want even if you don't admit it."

"Arrogant, presumptuous," the Saiyan murmured. Testily, he dug his nails into his arms. "I thought I told you to finish, but you have only continued your chattering."

"I'm done now," she chortled as she hastily downed her last bites.

The instant the words had left her mouth, Vegeta had stood up and taken hold of the sleeve of Bulma's sweater.

In response, she jostled her arm. "Grabbing isn't sexy, remember?" she teased.

"I don't give a fuck," he deadpanned.

She got up and made way for the stairs. "You'd better give a fuck this time. You'll never get another chance to give one if you don't, I swear to God."

"What do you mean by that, insolent woman?"

They stopped in front of her bedroom. "I mean that you need to listen to me instead of tell me to shut up, like you did last time." She opened the door. "I really hope you weren't bluffing when you said you knew what to do."

He balked at the open doorway. "You doubt me?"

"Prove me wrong!" she challenged. When he did not move, however, she crossed her arms and beamed a quizzical look at him. "Is there a problem?"

"Your room is filthy," he sputtered.

"Oh my fucking God. Seriously? How about your room, then?"

"Absolutely not."

Bulma's eyes darted across the hallway. "Holy shit are you neurotic. Okay, fine. There's an empty guestroom down the hall. Follow me."

He did. He had already taken off his shirt by the time Bulma had closed and locked the door behind them. When she turned to face him, he was in the process of folding it and laying it atop a dresser. She smiled at him, amused. "You've had a raging hard-on for the past fifteen minutes and you _still_ feel the need to fold your clothes? You can just rip them off, you know. See?" In one fluid motion, she stripped herself of her sweater and the bra underneath it, then tossed them to the floor.

"I require no instructions for undressing myself," Vegeta snarled. It surprised him how much he could tolerate from her when she stood naked in front of him. Out of sheer defiance, he folded his pants and undergarments as well once he had removed them, setting them beside his shirt. No doubt in attempt to distract him, Bulma had crept up from behind, wrapped one arm around his waist, and begun stroking him with her free hand. He clenched his jaw shut, already fighting to control himself.

"Stop that," he ordered, turning to face her once she had released her grip. Before he touched her, he took a fleeting moment to survey her raw beauty; it still seemed absurd for such a stunning creature to exist. He took her in his arms, kissed her, and let his hands trace her curved contours, pausing at her breasts. She was warm, she was alive, she was there; it was surreal. It reminded him that he too was alive, but that fact precisely made it so surreal; he had been dead, and now he was alive. It was a transient realization, but a powerful one, made concrete and tangible by action and sense perception. He felt a pleasing tightness in his chest and a burning flare in his cheeks—these sensations he could appropriate and understand; none of the woman's abstract names for emotions could make sense of them. If not for his own impatience, he would have liked to have spent more time simply enjoying her, adoring her, making her part of himself. He pushed her backward onto the bed.

Mischievously, she drew her lips away from his and rolled onto her stomach. "You really like kissing," she lilted. "It's cute. I like it too."

He lay down beside her, pulling her up close to him so that her back rested against his stomach. "Commentary is"—he kissed her neck, right below her ear—"superfluous." After slipping his left arm under her head, he reached around to caress her silken breast.

"You'd better not be telling me to be quiet," she purred. "Especially if this is going to be good, because I'm not going to be quiet." Brazenly, she thrust her backside into his hips.

He bucked involuntarily. The friction against her lower back had suited him all too well. "I won't tolerate excessive noise," he threatened. With his right hand, he petted her flat stomach, stroking downward, following the rise of her hip, and halting between her legs.

"I think you'd tolerate just about anything right now," she taunted. Her voice had assumed that breathy, labored tone that he remembered hearing before. She took his hand in hers, guiding it. "Like this," she panted.

"Don't tell me what to do!" In spite of his objection, however, his fingers quickly noted her suggestion. She rewarded him with a pleased hum, and threw one ankle behind his knees, bracing herself. When she began to move in rhythm with his delicate attentions, he asked with a mocking rasp, "Doubt me now?"

She answered him only with an inarticulate cry and a tighter grip on the coverlet beneath them. He nibbled her neck, teething the tender flesh just enough to smart, but not enough to cause any real pain. She was such a fragile creature, and she was either exceptionally foolish or courageous for living with as much abandon as she did. Vegeta could not comprehend it. It contradicted everything about how he had chosen to construct his own way of life. While he deliberately silenced himself, she seemed to have a vocal or physical response to each of his actions. It perturbed him, striking him as disingenuous because he lacked understanding. He might have demanded that she contain herself if not for his fear of losing control the moment he tried.

The grinding of her bare skin against his hips had become unbearable, and he had begun thrusting into her lower back. Suddenly, he remembered that she had begged him to enter her; he must not have had the presence of mind to listen to her then. Overwhelmed, he had resorted to automated movements while his thoughts fought to remain detached. Presently, though, she clawed his forearm, her body rigid and trembling, and moaned a feral litany of curses, calling him back from inside himself. It drove him crazy. He lasted only as long as she did, and he relaxed only after she had pleaded him to.

"_Stop_! Just give me a minute!"

Together, they lay still, both catching their breath. Vegeta stared toward the window blankly, absentmindedly observing that it had begun to snow again.

"That was really good, Vegeta," she sighed, finally. She glanced over her shoulder to smile at him with her glazed eyes. "I'm ready now. You can put it in if you want."

A silent second passed before he scowled and answered flatly, "No."

"Come on! Are you being weird again?" She reached over her hips to take matters into her own hands. She quickly realized what had happened. "Oh."

Vegeta did not react.

"That's okay." Lazily, she sought out the hand that still rested on her stomach. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I think it's actually kind of sexy."

"Woman," Vegeta snarled almost inaudibly, "_silence_." Desiring no eye-contact, he kept his vision focused on the frosted windowpane. He wished he were alone in his own room, not in this unfamiliar place with his arms around another person.

Bulma leaned over the bed and picked her sweater up off the floor. Vegeta grimaced when she swept it across her back. Disgusted, he withdrew his hand from her waist and turned aside lethargically. If not for his acute weariness, he would have left for the shower by now.


	38. Mind and Body

Although Vegeta had spent a few moments resting, his heart rate would not seem to slow. It became more and more noticeable as the pleasant languor that followed his orgasm wore off. He knew the phenomenon well enough; his heart raced inexplicably from time to time, some episodes lasting longer than others. It happened every few weeks; now that he thought about it, more time than usual had passed before it happened again. He could not decide if resting a few more moments or escaping the strange guestroom and the woman's presence would serve to soothe him better. Indecision kept him still.

"Is everything okay, or are you just tired?" Bulma asked, pressing up against his back.

He did not need her touching him right now; her touches were unpredictable. He sat up and took a few deep breaths, settling himself, before going to fetch his clothes from atop the dresser.

"You seem a bit on edge."

Without saying anything, he shuffled into his undergarments.

"You going to take a shower?"

Mixed with the sound of blood pulsing in his ears, her voice felt shrill and grating.

"Do you feel bad about what happened or something? It's okay—really. I promise. And I don't mind if you go and take a shower. It's what you like doing before going to bed. I'll be in my—"

"Quiet! Leave me alone!" He slipped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Bulma, however, opened it right back up and called out after him before he could disappear into the bathroom. "Hey! What's wrong? Calm down—everything is okay. Vegeta?"

Grinding his teeth together, he buried something between a whimper and a scream in the back of his throat. His hands, which had begun trembling, fumbled with the doorknob. The intensity of his desire to open the door only made the process more difficult. All the while, Bulma had kept up with her barrage of prying questions. Once Vegeta shut himself inside the bathroom, he paced in front of the sink, expecting that Bulma might come in after him at any second, regardless of whether or not he had locked the door. This anticipation did not help to compose him in the slightest. He still couldn't catch his breath, and he had to sit down. Mid-step, he dropped to the floor and tried to take in air deliberately and placidly.

It did not make sense for his body to react this way. However petty, it would make more sense for him to feel embarrassed or ashamed, as the woman had supposed. But _afraid_? No, it made no sense for him to feel afraid. Nothing remotely terrifying had happened unless he considered a brief loss of control over himself terrifying. Perhaps he did not actually feel afraid; fear did not register in his mind. His body might be providing his mind with physical signals of fear, but the two—his mind and his body—remained dissociated, communicating as separate entities rather than feeling and being as one. Perhaps the sensation of fear came from this dissociation rather than anything that had actually happened.

Vegeta could not tolerate losing hold on any part of himself; he feared it. He could not rationalize his current physical distress, and his failure to rationalize it spread that distress to his mind. Unless he wanted to let it overpower him completely, he would have to accept the experience and calmly wait for it to pass. He did not always succeed in doing this; he knew that, and that knowledge would often unsettle him further in such situations. This time, at least, he seemed lucid enough to detach himself from the experience to think about it objectively.

Vegeta still remembered well the first time it had happened. He had been a young man at the time, and he had never experienced anything like it before. It had happened during one of his and his comrades' most extensive purge missions to date. He and Raditz had just subdued a civilization center, and the two of them surveyed the area for survivors while they awaited word from Nappa, whom Vegeta had sent to scout out any smaller occupied zones the three of them might have missed.

_At first, Vegeta thought he was dying. A strange chill had gripped bones; he shivered in a thin sweat, and his heart raced uncontrollably. He could not catch his breath, and the harder and faster he drew in air, the tighter his throat collapsed in on itself. Someone must have injured him, although he could not remember when or how. Gore soiled his suit and armor. If Vegeta bled, his blood had mixed with and disguised itself as that of his victims; a cursory scan of his body did not help him locate whatever wound ailed him. He fell to the ground, still heaving, his hands barely breaking his fall. His lungs ached; the planet's dry air bit them with cold._

"_Raditz!" he cried. He heard the older Saiyan's bitter laugh above him after a few seconds' passing. Vegeta reached out and grasped his ankle. "Scum! Don't just"—choking, he wheezed fitfully—"stand there!"_

"_What the fuck is going on, Prince?" Raditz spat, annoyed. Unsuccessfully, he tried to help Vegeta to his feet._

"_Contact Nappa at once!"_

_Raditz rolled Vegeta over and began checking him for injuries."I don't see a damn thing. What's this about? What the hell do you want me to tell Nappa?"_

_Vegeta had barely made sense of Raditz's words. Terror had overtaken him so suddenly and with such intensity that the young prince had not even realized that nothing hurt him physically apart from his overworked throat and diaphragm. He heard the beep of Raditz's scouter._

"_Where are you? How soon can you get here with the pods?" A pause. "What's wrong? Hell if I know! I just turned around and Vegeta was on the ground screaming. I thought he was injured, but I couldn't find anything. Possibly something internal. I didn't see anyone touch him, though. Fucking weird. He just kind of lost his shit and pretty much everyone was gone after a couple minutes. Told me to stay back. Didn't want to mess with him. You know how he gets. He was doing that thing where he laughs to himself. Went a bit overboard. Definitely brought the price of the planet down, the little fucker." Another pause. "What's he doing now? He's still on the ground. Oh, goddammit—I think he's crying. He seems okay, though." Raditz sighed as he listened to Nappa's reply. "Fine. I'll check him over one more time." A beep ended the transmission._

_Vegeta felt Raditz's hands reach under his armor and pat his chest and abdomen for any tender areas. The Prince was too beside himself to care that the third-class touched him without authorization. "There's nothing here. What the fuck is wrong with you? I guess you finally just snapped." Raditz chuckled as he lifted Vegeta off of the ground and threw him over his shoulder. "Haven't I been telling you to loosen up for years? Should've fucking listened. But no—I'm just the third-class, and I couldn't _possibly_ know better. Little prick. I knew you were going to just lose it eventually—either that or blast your own head off."_

_Vegeta finally managed to say something. "Don't report this to Frieza! The scouters! Watching!" With clumsy, quavering hands, he unfastened his scouter from his ear, crushed it, then let the pieces fall to the earth. Afterward, he began clawing at Raditz's scouter._

_The older Saiyan jerked his head away and grabbed Vegeta's wrist. "You little shit! I need that. The damn things are expensive, entitled brat! If you're afraid of Frieza, don't wreck the fucking scouters!"_

"_If Frieza sees me like this..." Vegeta sobbed desperately._

"_Nappa's tracking our location. If I turn off my goddamn scouter, he won't be able to find us. You want that? Just relax, princey. We're way ahead of schedule. We'll be done here early, and that might put Frieza in a good mood." Raditz chuckled darkly before he continued. "And it's not like you did anything as fucked up as last time. Remember that woman? She was fucking gorgeous—I don't blame you. Besides, Frieza rewarded us nicely for that purge. He's in to that shit. I don't know what's got your tail in a knot."_

_Vegeta gagged on his own breath. He felt like retching._

"_Relax, princey."_

_"I—I—_can't_! Sh—Shut up!" Vegeta wished he could relax. He had tried to regain his usual composure before, but had not succeeded. Failing had only exacerbated his nervous condition, and any hope of calming himself faded with each new futile attempt._

_"There's Nappa," Raditz announced. "I don't see the point, but he's set on getting you to the border station. Probably just as afraid of getting his ass handed to him by Frieza as you are. No telling what he'd do if he found out something happened to his favorite pet Saiyan prince. It's good to be the third-class sometimes, Vegeta. It means Frieza doesn't give a shit about me. Makes life easier, and that's worth a lot in this shitty-ass universe."_

_"I'm not myself. I—I lost control. I'm losing my mind. He wants that. So he tells me to control myself—mocks me. He'll—he'll torture me! And he'll tell me to control myself while he does it. And he'll—speak softly. Softly!" Vegeta had begun with a piteous whine, but now he was practically shrieking._

"_Yeah, he's been like this the whole time," Raditz scoffed. Vegeta had not heard the other Saiyan's scouter; Nappa had arrived, apparently, and Raditz was speaking to him._

_Vegeta kept shrieking. "Then—then—then when I scream... knock me out. Fuck with my head. Fuck with my body too. Wake up—not me. But I won't know. I—I—I can't compose... my heart's going crazy. Make it stop! Don't tell him!" The young prince tried to catch his breath._

"_What the hell did he _do_?" Nappa asked, taking Vegeta's trembling, limp body from Raditz._

"_I already told you," Raditz replied. "He just got a bit excessive blowing stuff up. Nothing like last time. He didn't lose it until afterward. Wrecked his scouter again, by the way, the little shit. He'll probably make _me _pay for his new one just because he can."_

_Vegeta felt Nappa lay him in his pod. "Prince Vegeta," he said firmly, steadying the young man by resting one hand on his shoulder, "I'm going to tell the computer to put you into a brief stasis once we take off. We'll arrive at the station in six hours, and we'll get you to the infirmary immediately."_

"_Is this _really_ necessary?" Raditz complained. "There's nothing wrong with him. Don't be an idiot. He's just insane. You should've seen the way he treated that whore back on Frieza's station. Do you even pay attention to the shit he does?"_

"_We're ahead of schedule. Only a couple blips showed up on my scanner. I'll send you the coordinates and their tracking numbers. You can finish up here then meet us at the station."_

_Raditz sighed loudly. "You hear that, Vegeta? Frieza will never know about this because I'm doing your dirty work and saving your royal ass."_

"_Don't provoke him."_

"_Goddammit, Nappa. He's too out of it to care."_

"_I wouldn't bring it up with him later, either."_

"_I know when to keep quiet."_

When Vegeta awoke in the infirmary hours later, he found himself cleaned off and considerably calmer. The medic informed him and Nappa that he had suffered no physical injuries aside from a few minor burns, likely from the aftershock of a blast. Vegeta spent a couple hours in a healing chamber for good measure, however. Resting had soothed him well enough for him to take up a regular training regimen while he and his comrades awaited a new assignment. Although he seemed to have recovered to everyone, including himself, he nevertheless went about his affairs with a newly-reinforced purposeful caution. He noticed that, when he curled up to sleep, he would more often than not monitor his heart, counting each beat reflexively until he lost consciousness.

Over the years, Vegeta had learned that sitting down and controlling his breathing, as he did now, could keep any sudden onset of distress manageable. Nothing, though, warded off stress and unpredictability better than abiding by a fixed routine. He could sleep soundly tonight if he could get up off of the floor and get himself into the shower. He found that he could.

The very instant he got to his feet, he heard a light rapping on the bathroom door.

"Vegeta?" The woman's tone was meek.

He should have known. He exhaled slowly. At least her voice did not upset him as he might have anticipated. It had nearly the opposite effect, in fact—distracting and disarming.

"Are you okay? You've been in there a while."

He did not need or want to lose his temper, so he replied as calmly as he could. "Yes. Leave me."

She sighed loud enough for him to hear her through the door. "Okay, good. I'll let you be. See you later."

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, my dear readers. I had been feeling a bit discouraged, but I'm getting over myself, thankfully. Additionally, it's that time of year when school has resumed. Don't worry, though! I plan on keeping up with this story, and I hope to post once or twice every other week. Hold me to it!**


	39. Self and Other

Vegeta met Bulma in the kitchen the next morning. When he had sensed her, he had considered skipping breakfast and heading straight for the capsule ship. He could either avoid the stress of the woman and train hungry, or he could risk her presence and obey his impulse to follow through on his mid-morning habits. Either option had its advantages and drawbacks. While he weighed them against each other, he watched the woman pour steaming black coffee into two large mugs. Vegeta did want a cup of coffee; he could smell it from where he was standing. Bulma, leaning against the counter, sipped the coffee she had poured for herself, and Vegeta imagined its taste in his own mouth, hot and savory.

Before he could realize what he had done, he had stridden into the kitchen and taken his seat at the table. Bulma smiled at him, the curve of her lip accentuated by her lipstick's deep red. She remained standing where she was, and they regarded each other quietly. Vegeta could not remember why he had not fetched the coffee doubtlessly intended for him, nor why he did not fetch it now.

"How are you this morning, Vegeta?" Bulma asked him as she set his mug down next to his hand.

He hid his face as best as he could behind his coffee. He tried not to look at her as she took a seat beside him, but he couldn't help himself. She was still smiling. The lower lids of her eyes curved upwards when she smiled, and her cheeks flushed subtly; the effect illuminated her whole face in some unquantifiable way. A searing flash of yearning caught Vegeta by surprise; he felt it in his chest, and his heart rate quickened in response. He should have trained hungry.

Bulma shrugged. She had given up on waiting for any response from Vegeta. "I guess you're still waking up. Oh well—that's what coffee's for. Anyway, it's good to see you. Why don't you eat something?"

Vegeta hadn't noticed until that moment, but a plentiful selection of assorted breakfast meats and baked goods lay spread out in front of him. Whatever appetite he had once had suddenly lacked, though. In spite of that, he piled his plate with rolls an sliced ham, hoping that occupying himself with his food would excuse his inattentiveness and silence. He knew he would regret having wandered into the kitchen at all if he chose not to eat; it would defeat the purpose of his being there. He downed each bite hastily without tasting it. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could leave.

"Did you sleep well?"

Reflexively, Vegeta glanced up from his plate to the woman's eyes. The smile in them had faded. She seemed concerned about something. Perhaps if Vegeta answered her she would stop looking at him like that. Even when he turned away from her, he could still feel her watching him, reading him. It made him painfully aware that another person was in the room, that his mind was not the only one that could scrutinize and manipulate the world around him—an unsettling thought. It unsettled him in the same way that the knowledge that Bulma could break into his room at will did. "I slept through the night," he answered her finally, speaking truthfully.

"That's good." She smiled again.

Vegeta wondered why she did not talk as much as she usually did. If anything, the woman was talkative and liked to hear the sound of her own voice. By now, she should have asked his opinion on some trivial topic or started explaining something or other unprompted. This morning, however, she did not press him for conversation. She suppressed her urge to talk deliberately, without a doubt. Vegeta knew she often premeditated her behavior toward him; he had learned that over the course of the months he had known and interacted with her. From the evidence of her expression, he guessed she was not angry, nor could he think of any reason why she would be angry at him. Last night, he had not hurt her; he had pleased her, in fact, and she had told him so.

Besides, what difference did it make to him what she felt or whether she spoke or not? He need not let others concern him. His mind projected enough trouble onto the universe for him to take time to acknowledge the projections of other minds. Surely, he would gain nothing but another burden to bear if he tried to stretch himself beyond his personal universe into those of others.

"Vegeta?"

The Saiyan blinked.

"You've just been sitting there staring off into space for the past five minutes."

"I prefer to eat in silence."

"You weren't eating, though. Just staring."

Vegeta scowled. "You have been staring at me ever since I entered this room. It is bothersome. And you are abnormally quiet."

"Bothersome, huh?" Bulma smirked from behind her mug. "I thought it would bother you more if I tried to start any sort of involved conversation with you. You always complain about my 'prying questions.' Looks like I can't _not _bother you. But I at least wanted to make sure you had a nice breakfast before you sneaked off to train."

"Why?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I had fun last night. I thought I'd say hello this morning."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed in skepticism. He could discern that she had further motives than simply greeting him. "That is not the whole truth."

Bulma sighed, resting one elbow on the table and putting a palm to her forehead. "I was worried about you, okay?"

"Why? My affairs are of no concern to you or anyone else."

"You just... seemed really anxious all of a sudden." Her tone fell short of its characteristic confidence, as if she feared broaching the subject at hand. "I didn't want you to... hurt yourself or anything."

Vegeta's brow arched threateningly.

"But I guess it was nothing. You showed up here at nine thirty like you usually do, even if you are acting a bit subdued. Maybe I was being a little bit... presumptuous."

At least she knew to correct herself, he thought. "We are in agreement on that," he declared condescendingly. "And do not say that merely to appease me. Believe it instead. I can tell when someone purposefully repeats my own thoughts back to me to stay in my favor."

Bulma's grip around her mug tightened defensively. For a second, Vegeta thought she might rebut his accusation with considerably less restraint than she had shown so far. But before she could give in to such a temptation, she exhaled slowly, sipped her coffee, and let her smile creep back into her eyes. "Okay, then. I'm glad everything's fine. But if you've got something on your mind, I won't mind talking it over."

Vegeta folded his arms over his chest. "There at last is the prompt for conversation and the attempt at prying. Don't fool yourself. There is nothing for us to speak of."

"Sure," Bulma conceded.

She remained incredulous. The one syllable she had uttered had dripped with disbelief. Vegeta decided that it was not worth convincing her; she was headstrong, and she would believe what she will. Not only this, but the futile process of convincing her would involve nothing less than some insufferable, drawn out dialogue that would certainly descend into a gratuitously emotional mess. Vegeta could tolerate that by no means. As long as she left him alone, it did not matter what she thought. Still, it annoyed him to know that her perspective reflected something other than his own. It annoyed him more to acknowledge how much energy he had already wasted thinking about the whole ordeal.

"You spaced out again, Vegeta."

He grumbled indistinctly. "I have nothing to say to you. If you cannot abide my silence, then you may go."

"It's fine, actually. I like just being with you." The rosiness in her cheeks bloomed softly when she said that, bringing out the blue in her limpid eyes.

Vegeta could hardly bear to look at her. He could never deny her beauty, no matter how many absurd things she said. She possessed that sort of sickening beauty whose presence strangled and wracked the body with aching. Shortness of breath and the threat of nausea—it recalled the onset of Vegeta's strange out-of-body experiences a little too closely for his comfort. Even so, he could not call it wholly unpleasant.

Bulma reached out to grasp his hand. The instant she touched him, he realized he had been staring at her as shamelessly as she had him. But now that Vegeta had come back to himself, so did shame, and he cast his eyes to the floor as he drew his hand away.

"I'm happy you decided to have breakfast with me," Bulma said. "I was afraid that you wouldn't show up at all, but you did."

"I can stand the nonsense of some inane woman if it means eating at the time I've become accustomed to," the Saiyan spat with no small amount of cynicism.

"You can _stand _me. How romantic." She giggled at her own sarcasm.

Vegeta shot irony straight back at her. "I want no more to eat, however, so I can stand you no longer." He followed his statement with a derisive, crooked grin.

She laughed heartily.

"I meant what I said." He got up and made for the main hallway.

"Wait! Can I invite you to dinner again before you run off?" Bulma set her mug down on the table loudly, drawing attention to herself. "Same day, place, and time as yesterday. If you like that schedule, we can make it every week."

The Saiyan turned, blinked, then glared at her. "What?"

"Do you want to have dinner with me on Saturdays?" Her proposition, roughly translated to Vegeta's mind, meant that she wanted the two of them to have regular sexual encounters.

Vegeta's jaw slackened a little before he forced it shut again. The question had caught him off guard, and he had no idea how he should or wanted to respond. He paced back and forth before taking his seat once more.

Bulma watched him expectantly. She had inched her backside a bit closer to the edge of her chair. While Vegeta could never enter her mind or body to experience the world as she did, he had the distinct impression that she was presently feeling the same giddy anxiety that he had felt before. Imagining the sensation produced a mild version of it in his own body. Merely studying her blurred the barrier between their supposedly secret and inexorably separate conscious experience. It was a strange phenomenon, but one which Vegeta had met with before. He had experienced it just last night, in fact; her climax had compelled his own.

"I am ambivalent," Vegeta announced finally.

"You don't know?"

"How can you expect me to make an informed choice when you have not defined the terms of your proposition?"

Bulma raised one eyebrow. "I did, though. I thought it was pretty self-explanatory—Saturdays, same time. I figured you'd like that. If you're feeling fine, what's holding you back?"

He frowned. "From what I've observed among you Earthlings, such an agreement has implications beyond what you say. I will know your customs before I agree or disagree to them."

"Wow, you're taking this really seriously. So you want to know the boundaries of our relationship—is that it?" She seemed surprised.

"Define your terms, or I will reject them on principle."

"To be honest, Vegeta, I'm not really following any 'customs.' I'm just taking things one day at a time, especially since you're not used to any of this. I figured we could just do what works for us and adjust as needed." She gave him time to respond, but Vegeta's stoic stare demanded that she elaborate. "I thought yesterday went pretty okay, so I thought we could do the same thing again. I won't tell anybody about it unless you want people to know. It doesn't have to be anything official. I'm not expecting anything more than before—just some conversation and a bit of fun every now and again. So what do you say?"

Vegeta had no reason to doubt her sincerity. It seemed she offered herself freely on the condition that he endure the occasional dialogue and ensure the reciprocity of their pleasure. He had only to decide if it was worth the trouble. As for the dialogue, he considered it a means to an end, a necessary inconvenience that he could put up with so long as she did not press or pry too far. As for the sex, he desired it, but did not know if he could justify it to himself. With the conversation the woman demanded beforehand as well as her insistence on his pleasing her, he would have to sacrifice hours of valuable time. Ultimately, he did not need her for sexual gratification; he could satisfy himself alone in a matter of minutes whenever he wished.

"Can you still not decide?" Bulma asked, interrupting his deliberations. If she inched any further toward the edge of her seat, she would lose her balance. Her eyes, wide and fixed on his, begged him for an answer as if for mercy.

A stab of longing distracted Vegeta from his choice. That look of hers—it distressed him. _She _distressed him. She challenged his self-sufficiency, his overriding desire to remain unmoved and untouched. If touch meant ecstasy, if stepping outside himself meant contact with an other such as her, then perhaps he prized singleness of heart too highly. Vegeta did not often make choices of pleasure, but of necessity. Why deny himself? Why not have mercy?

"I accept your terms."

"Great! I thought you were going to have an existential crisis or something," she laughed.

He should have trained hungry.


	40. Indulgence and Restraint

**WARNING: This chapter contains mature content of a sexual nature. A conscious effort to avoid excess lewdness was made, but reader discretion is nevertheless advised.**

* * *

Bulma sat at the table, one knee crossed over the other, fidgeting with her cell phone. She hadn't yet noticed Vegeta's presence, and the Saiyan paused before he entered the room, letting his eyes wander over her freely. The sweater-dress she wore halted mid-thigh, exposing much of her legs' length, although the fabric of her opaque stockings shielded her bare skin from the open air. Vegeta wished she was not wearing those stockings, however little they left to the imagination; they obscured her skin's ivory translucence. He remembered from experience how warm and smooth it was.

Vegeta had thought of her often since their breakfast together. Then again, he had thought and fantasized about her often for months now; he could not exactly call the phenomenon new or strange anymore, although it still seemed that way. How often he thought of her struck him every time he saw her. His mind could only replicate her in part, so when she sat before him in the flesh, the stark fullness of her being and her _being there _would shock him.

If simply imagining her sufficed, Vegeta would not have shown up for tonight's dinner. While the idea of her certainly excited him, enhancing the pleasure he gave himself, the reality of her overwhelmed him entirely. He might have immediately preferred the idea over the reality, for the idea by its very nature offered itself up as an object he could control and manipulate unhindered; but the reality, in spite of or perhaps because of her chaotic subjectivity, captivated him in the same way that the tactics and movements of a skilled opponent might. She was irresistible; she could make an aesthete out of an ascetic if she wished. Not even Vegeta could restrain himself.

When he sat down beside her, she glanced up at him, then stowed her phone away in the purse resting at her feet. "Hey, you," she greeted, smiling softly.

He nodded, acknowledging her.

"I got catering from the best sushi place in West City this time," she said, pointing at the trays set before him. "It's world famous. Tell me if you like it!"

"Food is sustenance," he stated monotonically. He turned a tuna roll over with his chopsticks, examining it.

Bulma cocked an eyebrow, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You speak of it as if it's something other than sustenance."

"Well, sure. It is that, of course, but it's also something you can enjoy."

Vegeta tasted his tuna roll. Inwardly, he confessed that the flavor appealed to him. "You sound like a wealthy person."

"I am a wealthy person! That's how I could afford all this, and how I could get them to cater for me. Weren't you rich too—selling planets and all? And you were high-ranking."

The Saiyan scowled. "Our rewards, when we got them, were erratic at best." His tone was bitter. "All transactions went through Frieza. Usually, he named his own prices."

Bulma swallowed nervously. "Oh. I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about this anymore."

"Don't give me your pity, woman," he commanded caustically. "Frieza is dead and has no power over me." He paused, breathed deeply, then continued, not once breaking eye-contact with Bulma. "There were times when I knew wealth. Frieza saw to it that I knew riches as well as destitution. As I said, our rewards were _erratic_—logic didn't govern them, and they were rarely proportional to the task completed, whether in extremities of excess or scarcity. So there were times when I knew wealth. I also knew that it could be taken away. That is the way of things."

The woman sat back in her chair, pondering for a moment. "I suppose so. Nothing lasts forever."

"You understand, then."

"I'm glad you're able to share stuff like that with me." Her sentiment elicited an eye-roll from Vegeta, but she went on before he could respond any further. "So what did you do with extra funds when you had them?"

"I did not squander it on trivialities." He had emphasized the world "trivialities."

Bulma set her chopsticks down testily. "Are you judging me for how I spend my money?"

"I said that I took care not to squander my wealth. I said nothing about you, but you may interpret my meaning as you wish." Dismissing her, he drained a glass of water.

"You're just messing with me."

"Conversation was part of our agreement. I am conversing with you." He smirked. "If this does not please you, then it need not go on any longer."

Bulma sighed. "Don't be an ass, Vegeta. Forget about the cost, and just admit that you like the fucking sushi."

"It is food." He shoved four different kinds of sushi into his mouth with particular irreverence.

"Really?" She glared at him, but the upturn of her lip indicated that his gesture had amused her to some degree. "At least you're talkative this evening, even if you're only talkative in asshole mode. And you're only in asshole mode when you're not feeling especially down. So I'm glad you're happy, Vegeta! I bet you're happy because you're getting laid tonight—typical."

The Saiyan shrugged. Perhaps he was in a good mood.

"That's right. There's that smug look. Just so you know, I don't consider this dinner a waste of money. I thought I'd do something nice for you by getting the best stuff Earth has to offer. I'm not just being extravagant because I can." She paused for a second. "Okay, maybe I am a little, but that's beside the point. So far, my plan seems to be working—you're being an ungrateful prick instead of a nervous wreck. You're welcome."

Vegeta chose to disregard her comment. "The food is decent enough," he mocked.

"Spoiled brat."

"Ironic that you, of all people, should insult me in that way."

"Ironic that a freeloader is lecturing his benefactress."

Vegeta snickered to himself. The woman was easily flustered.

"On second thought, maybe you _won't_ be getting laid tonight." Bulma folded her arms under her breasts, challenging him.

"In that case, neither will you," Vegeta shot back. "But you are weak and self-indulgent—you won't deny yourself."

"I successfully seduced the Prince of All Saiyans. I don't plan on denying myself victory." Playfully, she nudged his foot with her heel. "Does that make me weak? Probably not—you wouldn't like me if I was."

"Don't flatter yourself." The woman could construct a good taunt, Vegeta thought.

"You're only being a dick because you don't know how to flirt."

"Is that so? You're in a state of heightened arousal all the same."

"It's because I can tell that you like being with me no matter how hard you're trying to hide it and piss me off," she stated haughtily. "You're practically crazy about me." Without warning, Bulma stood up, took Vegeta's hand, wrapped his arm around her waist, then sat herself in his lap. Her actions met little resistance. Vegeta had expected her touch; he had agreed to it when he had accepted her arrangement, claiming it as something he desired. If this was how their evening would begin and proceed, then so be it.

"Nonsense." His voice cracked when he spoke. The softness of her sweater's wool startled his fingertips; he ran his hands across Bulma's back and hips without thinking. He barely noticed how her shifting weight in his lap teased him as she threw one arm over his shoulder. Her scent emanated strongly from her neck, and no more than a few inches separated Vegeta's nose from her pulse. Closing his eyes, he let her brush his cheek with her thumb. If he had not shut his eyes, his gaze caught between her full breasts and pretty, barely parted lips, then he might have given in and surrendered everything, utterly at his senses' mercy, and they cried out for indulgence. He sighed.

Bulma tapped the tip of his nose, and his eyes flew back open. "Yeah, you're crazy about me," she teased merrily. "Do you want me to kiss you? Just say the word."

Vegeta had not listened to her. His hands, now hugging her waist just below her ribs, still could not believe how impossibly soft the material of her sweater felt. "This fabric..." he mumbled, beyond fascinated. Why he fixated on the fabric he couldn't tell; he might not have ever noticed it if it clung to the body of someone else.

Bulma beamed at him, and Vegeta had to close his eyes again. "It's cashmere," she explained as she resumed stroking his cheek, "a very special kind of wool. My mom and I can get you some if you like it that much."

"Cashmere," he repeated mindlessly.

"Yeah," she answered before resting a kiss on his mouth.

At first, he hardly reciprocated, so lost to himself that he couldn't even question how lost he was. She was there, there with him and all around him. Her weight pressed into his hips, her chest rose and fell against his own, her hands cradled his face, and her rhythmic exhalation, somewhat irregular and forced, whisked against his upper lip. Heat took hold of him; it registered first in his blood, singing his skin, then tingling his extremities. He opened his mouth and panted a little as if a dose of cold air would relieve some of the burning. Instead, Vegeta received nothing but a steamy moan which he caught and swallowed down before stifling it with his tongue.

Bulma returned his deepened kiss with as much fervor as Vegeta gave it. He had tasted the warmth on her breath, and he knew immediately and intuitively that she felt the very same feverishness. Somehow, that knowledge doubled the sensation as if he could experience it twice, once through himself, once through her. She tugged gently on a fistful of his hair, and when she crushed herself even harder against him, he responded with a firm grip at the widest point of her hips, pulling her closer. The movement and friction fleetingly drew Vegeta's attention to how nearly the strain of his erection against her thigh had come to resemble pain.

Vegeta almost growled when Bulma broke away from him. But rather than by making a sound, he voiced his frustration by scraping his teeth against her throat. She whimpered, then rebuked him with a slight but saucy slap across his cheek. "Vegeta!" she called. "Listen."

He froze for a second and glared at her defiantly.

"Listen—where do you want to go? Nobody's home but us. My parents always go out on Saturday night. We can go _anywhere_ we want."

In passing, Vegeta confirmed her statement when he failed to sense anyone's presence on the premises of the mansion.

"We can even do it _here_ if you want," she whispered right next to his ear.

The kitchen was an open room with plenty of clear space, and a series of expansive windows let the courtyard observe it. Vegeta did not relish the prospect at all. "No," he answered authoritatively.

"Then"—she kissed his forehead—"where do you want to go?"

The choice she threw in front of him forced him back into his thoughts and objectivity, and he hated that. For once, restraint and detachment did not appeal to him. He reconsidered Bulma's suggestion of staying right where they were, but remained uneasy about it. That uneasiness annoyed him, yet he couldn't rid himself of it. Neither did he want to go to Bulma's bedroom; it was filthy. She certainly had no place in his own bedroom. Weighing these options only served to incite his anger. Open-endedness in general angered him. He should have known he couldn't simply enjoy himself; it was not in his nature.

"We could go to that guestroom again. The sheets were washed and everything."

Vegeta supposed he had no other choice, however far from ideal. He had no idea what he considered ideal anyhow. At least he had made a decision, and he no longer had to think. Scooping his arm under Bulma's knees, he stood from his chair with her still clinging to him. He did not want to let go of her. Bulma did not complain and instead rewarded him with a series of kisses. She hugged him tightly around his neck, and her scent, magnified by desire, steadily obscured his former frustration from his consciousness.

Once he locked the door behind them, Vegeta dropped Bulma onto the bed in a silent command for both of them to undress. The woman made an elaborate show of removing her stockings, giving Vegeta something to watch while he folded his clothes. Watch he did with ferocious interest.

"You're crazy about me," she stated cockily as she took hold of the bottom of her dress, preparing to pull it off over her head.

"No," the Saiyan rasped. "Remove the stockings only."

"Somebody really likes cashmere!" Bulma lilted. "I'm going to get really hot, though."

"Not my concern."

"Didn't think so." She pulled him on top of her, and the Saiyan obliged. "But you've been good tonight, so—" A kiss silenced her.

"On your side," Vegeta ordered frantically once he came up for air. He figured he could please her quickly if he repeated the technique of the previous week; it was simple enough, and he had no patience for the unknown or unfamiliar.

"Yes, Your Highness," Bulma mocked, obeying him nevertheless and even helping him slide the skirt of her dress up over her hip's dramatic curve. "Now hurry up and get inside me." She too could give orders, it seemed.

Lust alone allowed Vegeta to excuse her impertinence. Presently, he rubbed his face along the sleeve of her dress, enthralled by it and how thoroughly her distinctive fragrance saturated it. Creeping upward and inward, his hand skimmed her ivory thigh. Between the wool and her silken skin, she drove him wild. This was why Vegeta had accepted her terms, of course. In retrospect, his initial ambivalence seemed downright stupid. Bulma groaned loudly when his fingers met her desire's center.

"Vegeta—please." She sneaked one hand under his and, reaching behind her, took hold of him with the other. "No—I'll take care of that."

He swatted her hand away recklessly and replaced it with his own. He couldn't keep from stroking himself a few times as he positioned his tip at her entrance. She was more than ready for him, he knew.

"Come on, you bastard!" Bulma cursed hoarsely.

Vegeta snarled at the insult, then drove into her as if it would spite her. In spite of himself, though, a cry escaped his throat before he could restrain it. Immediately upon hearing his own voice, he became self-conscious and glanced down at the woman, hoping that she hadn't noticed and that he'd imagined it. She paid him no special attention, so he tried to forget about it. At least she could not watch him from her position, and he could hide.

The forgetting came easier than ever he could have anticipated. Heedlessly, he had assumed a slow rhythm, and the sensation of her warmth tightening all around him lured him out of himself straightaway. The slow pace hastily shifted into a fast one. Everything would be over quickly.

Sweat vaguely moistened the cashmere blanketing her back, and Vegeta felt it hot against his pectorals. Holding her close, she trembled beneath his touch, arching her whole body backward into him. She was swearing incoherently and burying sharp, manicured nails into the hand that clutched her breast. The intensity of the moment washed over the Saiyan all at once, and he muffled a moan against her now relaxing shoulder as he raced to completion then relaxed alongside her, dazed and spent.

They lay together quietly for a few moments before Bulma sat up suddenly, pulling her sweater-dress off over her head and tossing it clumsily to the floor. "Oh my God," she sighed thickly, "I'm burning up." After fanning herself, she reclined again, turning to face Vegeta, who had shut his eyes to passively soak in the rare instance of peacefulness. She tapped his nose to gain his attention. "That was great, and I'm glad you enjoyed it, but don't you ever, _ever_ make me wear a goddamn sweater again while we're fucking."

He peered at her listlessly out of one eye and said nothing. Her cheeks blazed red, and little curls of blue hair clung to her gleaming neck and forehead. She was beautiful and fiery.

She poked him again. "Can I ask you a question before you head off to the shower?"

"Hm?" he grunted apathetically.

"Where the hell did you learn to kiss like you do? No wonder you like it—you're fucking amazing at it."

Before he could check his response, he answered her with a single word: "Raditz."

A long silence. "_Really_? Care to elaborate on that one?" Bulma inquired with supreme interest.

Vegeta realized his mistake in saying anything. "No," he muttered with finality, hoping she would drop the subject.

Thankfully, she did. "Cashmere is expensive stuff, you know. You've got a self-indulgent wealthy person hiding behind that facade of yours. You are a prince, after all."

"Cheeky, insufferable woman."


	41. Blood and Ice

Vegeta should have worn his armor. Experimenting with a higher level of gravity than he ever had before, he had lowered his defenses in order to cope with the pressure. He could not deflect the laser before it grazed his side. His armor would have likely protected him from the injury; he should have worn it.

As he exited the ship, stepping out onto the snow-dusted earth, blood streamed down his body and over his left leg. Vegeta stripped himself of his now torn and soiled shirt, folded it, then pressed it to the wound. The bleeding would slow soon enough, but Vegeta, in wiping his boot clean in the snow, had already left behind a few telltale traces of red in the white ice. The sooner he went inside, the sooner he could rinse away the evidence. It was Saturday; he had a little over an hour before five o'clock. He would have enough time to wait for the bleeding to taper off and then take a preliminary shower to cleanse his skin of any stains.

Stealthily, he made his way through the halls, up the stairs, and into his room, taking special care not to touch anything for fear of bloodying it. If he sat or lay down on his bed, he would dirty it, so he remained standing.

Flurrying snowflakes drew his attention to the bedroom window. The glass felt cold against his forehead when he leaned against it. He shivered, but did not move and kept staring out onto the frosted lawn. His breath fogged the glass in front of his mouth when he sighed, and the cut in his side stung with his expanding ribs.

Silently floating to the ground, the snow hypnotized him. This was not the first time snow had affected him in this way. Something about it, it seemed, emptied and numbed him. Watching it felt like revisiting a memory that his mind refused to process, piercing deeply, yet failing to break the surface. The feeling passively disturbed Vegeta, but he couldn't turn away from the window; the wintered sky kept him stoic and solid, unmoved and paralyzed. Just a little while longer, he thought, and the cut would clot, and he could wash away the chill with a hot shower.

It had snowed often on Frieza's home planet. Vegeta had spent more time there than on any other world. Except for a brief thaw once every few years, the winters were perpetual. However much Vegeta hated the place, he knew it well; that was its consolation, its constant luxury. Perhaps this explained, at least in part, why a few flurries mesmerized him. He would never call it nostalgia, but it all brought in a storm of remembrance, assuredly. With that storm came a blast of sensations too chaotic and vast to make sense of, derive understanding from, or categorize. Coherent thought came only in flashes.

"_Vegeta!" Raditz's voice—Vegeta recognized it through the blizzard wind, the sound of it obnoxious and infuriating. He wanted to be alone._

"_How did you find me?" Vegeta growled. "I have your scouter."_

_The older Saiyan caught up to him and struck his shoulder. The gesture provoked a threatening recoil from Vegeta. "You're tracking blood everywhere," Raditz answered, defensively holding his hands out in front of him, "you weren't hard to find."_

"_If you have nothing to report, leave me at once." Vegeta had just left the training grounds located not far from the campus of Frieza's palace. He now headed toward the barracks, and he wanted nothing more than to go inside, lie down, and sleep with no disturbances—especially from Raditz._

"_I do, actually. You can give me my damn scouter back. I've got your new one." He raced up in front of Vegeta and opened the door for both of them. Once inside, he held out a black case for the Prince's taking._

_Vegeta snatched it away. Then, he detached Raditz's scouter from his ear and dropped it to the ground irreverently. "A pity it didn't break," he spat. "It's an outdated model—useless. I would tell you to invest in another, but I know you can't afford it with all the time you waste gambling."_

_Raditz picked up the discarded scouter, then followed Vegeta down the corridor. "Healing chambers are the other way, Prince."_

"_Do I look lost? It's not your place to question me." He leaned against the entrance to their quarters, catching his breath. He must have lost more blood than he had thought._

"_You're going to make a mess if you don't get that taken care of."_

_Vegeta stumbled over to his assigned bed, then collapsed on top of it. "Don't speak to me of mess, you disorderly scum." Curling up on his side, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow._

"_Was it bad this time?" Raditz asked after a few moments of, if not for the young Saiyan's heaving, silence._

_After snarling angrily into his arm, he looked up to glare at his comrade. "Frieza has been off-world for some time, idiot."_

"_So you're saying you did this to yourself?"_

"_I ordered you to leave me!" Vegeta had begun with a vicious shout, but ended with a whimper. The sleeve of his battle suit caught a handful of stray tears. Curling tighter into himself, the Prince ground his molars together and cursed inwardly. The tears had come out of nowhere, and he couldn't stop them; this would have enraged him, but he had not the will to stir up his anger. He did not have the will to do anything._

"_I'll leave you alone, sure. I don't really want to deal with whatever it is you're upset about. I just want to sleep before we leave. And this is where my damn bed is. Don't mind me. I'll be out pretty quick."_

_At least Vegeta's will kept hold of his body, preventing his shoulders from shaking with weeping. The tears dried as suddenly as they had come. The Prince focused instead on the stickiness of his blood-soiled clothes. He had not noticed it before, as the cold had numbed his skin; now, though, his wounds smarted, and the fabric of his suit clung to them uncomfortably. "Raditz," he called._

_The older Saiyan sighed loudly. "Yeah—what?"_

"_Fetch me new clothes."_

_Vegeta heard Raditz get up. "You'll just ruin them."_

"_Do as I say. What did I tell you about questioning me?"_

"_Right," the older Saiyan assented, resigned. From across the room, the Prince heard the snap of an opening compartment and the rustling of Raditz's hands through their shared essentials. A pat on the shoulder prompted Vegeta to sit up. "Here you go," Raditz said as he dropped a clean battle suit as well some basic medical dressings beside Vegeta._

_Once Vegeta got up, he leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his forehead between his palms as if trying to dam something threatening to break out. He remained this way for a couple moments, then glanced toward the clothes and bandages Raditz had left for him. "I did not ask for these," he muttered gravely, referring to the bandages._

"_I get it, Vegeta. You want to get off on your own pain for a while. You're seventeen, and the universe is shitty—I get it. But you can bleed on those instead of your clothes." Raditz lay back down, throwing his arms behind his head and crossing his ankles._

"_How dare you," the Prince hissed icily. The instant he undressed, he balled up his bloodied garments and hurled them in Raditz's face._

"_The fuck!"_

"_Get up!" Vegeta stormed, jerking Raditz up by the collar. His nose nearly touched the other Saiyan's as he shouted. "Get up off your useless, lazy third-class ass and wash those—immediately! Do something worthwhile with your time. What a pointless existence of vacuous self-indulgence you lead—always sleeping, whoring, eating, whining, backtalking. Get up!" He let go of Raditz's collar forcefully, thrusting him back against the wall, which gave way and dented._

"_Fucking—fuck—damn little shit!" Raditz yelped, his hands flying to nurse the lump on his head that was surely forming. "Sorry, _sorry_! I'll do it." He watched Vegeta cautiously as he got to his feet, flinching preemptively in response to any additional strike._

_The Prince returned to his bed, not once taking his eyes off Raditz. Although he did not dress his wounds, Vegeta dabbed as much blood away from them as he could before donning the unsoiled suit. Thereafter, he crumpled back into his sitting position with his face buried in his hands. As he passively registered the white noise Raditz made from across the room, he let his mind wander. "Raditz," he called after a few moments._

"_Yes, Prince?" Vegeta could tell that the other Saiyan spoke with purposeful pleasantness. It was better than outright disrespect, at least._

"_Tell me what gives you meaning in this life of yours."_

_Raditz spun around, his expression quizzical._

"_Answer me."_

_He returned to Vegeta's side of the room, then sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know, Vegeta. That's really random." He shrugged. "I don't think about philosophical questions. I just go with the flow."_

_Vegeta grimaced, then snorted condescendingly. "Of course you have no answer."_

_Raditz sighed. "What I live for... damn, what a random-ass question. You know—a good fight, a good fuck. Shit like that. No point in complicating things with weird questions. The universe is crazy enough as it is. It doesn't make sense, so I just get as much as I can out of it."_

"_And this is why you are so stupidly happy all of the time?"_

_Raditz laughed. "I don't know about that! It's not like our lives are _that_ great. I just think it's better to let loose than weigh myself down. Mind games have never been my thing. Sounds like torture." He laughed again. "Like kissing—that's a better game. Remember that, Vegeta? There are better games, too. I'm still willing to suck your cock, by the way. I'll teach you. It's easy. It's not like I could get away with any funny stuff. You'd kick my ass to the next dimension and back. It's a serious offer. Might help take the edge off, soften the frown."_

_Vegeta's nails scraped his scalp. He would claw out the memories flashing before his mind's eye if he could. "No—_no_. Silence. I'll—I'll murder you should you mention _that_ again."_

"_You were the one who asked before... oh, well." He smirked, then lay back, pillowing his head with his arms again. "Goddamn, you were in a weird mood. You've been weird ever since that one purge. Kind of edgy. And holy shit, Vegeta—you're into weirder stuff than _me_. You can't deny it. Totally predicted that one, though. The quiet ones are the kinkiest. Probably why Frieza sort of likes you. You are just _so _fucked up, like, holy shit. I've never actually—"_

"_Shut up, Raditz. Just fucking shut up. _Now_."_

_Raditz did not require a second warning. Vegeta's tone carried more than a threat's shadow, and Vegeta knew that Raditz understood how sincerely he meant his malice. The older Saiyan retreated to the other side of the room, again picking up the Prince's bloodied clothes which he had started to clean._

_Vegeta's eyes began to water, and he pressed his temples further into each other in response. Now that his injuries had clotted, whatever toxin struggling to seep out of his body had no outlet apart from his tears. Part of Vegeta wished he had not tended to his wounds; they let distress flow out freely, flow out freely in a way that did not require reflection, emotion, or speech. "Raditz," he called once again. Just a moment ago, he had pushed his comrade away, and now he called him back again. He couldn't rationalize it._

_Raditz stalked hesitantly to Vegeta's side. "Yeah, Vegeta?" His voice betrayed fear, concern, and confusion._

"_Frieza... Frieza... he wants to make me like him," the Prince nearly whispered, his pitch cracked and wavering. It seemed his distress would expel itself in whatever form it possibly could, whether of Vegeta's accord or against it. It did not matter who heard him, it only mattered _that_ someone heard him. "Remember that reward, those riches? We got them because of what I'd done, because I'd disgraced myself, just as Frieza had wanted. So don't dare speak to me of it. A passion took me, and I wasn't myself. That is not who I am, Raditz. I have my dignity, and my desires are right and pure."_

"_Well, shit." Raditz ran his fingers through his long hair nervously. "Come on, though. I mean, what else are we supposed to do? Planet Vegeta is gone. All we have is each other. Don't let that honor shit bother you. Nobody's around to care what you do. Let loose. Do whatever you want. You're the only one who gives a fuck."_

"_Shut up. I'm not like you. You have no regard for yourself or your purpose or our legacy. You're throwing your life away. And you're mistaken. Frieza gives a—"_

"_Our lives were fucked over a long time ago. Just get over it and enjoy yourself while you can."_

"_Quiet! You don't understand," Vegeta fumed. He bit down on his tongue before continuing. "Frieza cares what I do. He watches me. You know that. He wants to make me like him. You think our assignments are random? That the rewards are random? It's all intentional. It's not a matter of simply accepting my lot in life, enjoying what I've been given, Raditz. _Frieza_ has given me what I have, and I _won't_ take it!"_

_Raditz shrunk away when Vegeta struck the bed with a tense fist._

"_He'll—he'll offer me everything, the whole galaxy even—tempt me with it. And you've heard the stories—they're true. He takes his favorites, and he... changes them. Once they've surrendered the mind, and he's changed it, he changes the body too—surgeries, modifications, replacements, genetic sorcery. What do you think happened to Ginyu?"_

"_Ha!" Raditz snorted. "You don't seriously believe those stories, do you? Explains why you're pissy, though. Conspiracy theories and playing stupid-ass mind games with yourself do that to you. Maybe _that's _what Frieza wants, not—"_

"_Just shut your fucking mouth, Raditz."_

"You're_ the one who wanted to fucking talk."_

"_Raditz. _Silence_."_

_Vegeta wished he himself had remained silent. He wished that he hadn't tended to his injuries, that he hadn't exchanged his chilled, blood-crusted garments for warm, clean ones._

The bleeding had stopped, and Vegeta turned away from the frosted window.

Once under the shower's spray, he conscientiously scanned every inch of skin, assuring himself that a hot water's dousing had cleansed him thoroughly enough. The woman would notice anything out of the ordinary. Half an hour did not leave enough time for his hair to dry before seeing her, so he kept from wetting it at all. He could have avoided this whole ordeal if he had worn his armor. He should have worn it.

He wondered why he hadn't worn it as he plundered a cabinet beneath the sink, seeking out a dressing of any sort. And why had he chosen to train at such a high level of gravity despite his lack of armor? Perhaps he had merely miscalculated—an easy explanation. He discovered a box of small adhesive bandages, and he aligned a row of them along the length of the gash in his side. Accidents happened from time to time; naturally, the woman would think nothing of it.

Vegeta had certainly not wanted to jeopardize his scheduled time with her. Last week had unquestionably proven to him why he had scheduled time with her at all. He enjoyed her, he enjoyed her immensely, and he would enjoy her again. When she had turned to face him, her sweater on the floor and her flushed, naked breast before his heavy eyes, he had not wanted to leave her. Delaying his shower, he had drawn her up close beside him, and they had shared their heat as well as a couple of lazy kisses. He'd kept his eyes sealed shut, for he'd considered it better to risk falling asleep than to risk reading her face and melting in her arms. Eventually, she had had to remind him to follow through his evening shower routine.

Vegeta stepped into the kitchen and found Bulma waiting for him. He definitely preferred her to blood and ice.

"How's it going, Vegeta?" she greeted affectionately.

With a nod, he acknowledged her, then took his seat. She must have explained whatever it was he had begun to scarf down without tasting, but he couldn't remember it. She must have brought up some topic for discussion, but he couldn't remember that either. He might not have known whether or not he had provided any response or input if she hadn't interrupted his absence of mind from their exchange with a near-shout of his name.

"Vegeta! You haven't said a word since you got here. Is something wrong?"

He almost started. "It's nothing." He folded his arms over his chest.

The motion drew Bulma's eyes to his side. "Oh my God," she exclaimed, "you're bleeding through your shirt!"

"Training as usual," he said. "It comes with risk."

"Why didn't you say something?" She stood up, and urged him up with a pat to his shoulder. "Come on—let's get that cleaned up before we do anything else. No worries."

Vegeta didn't budge.

Bulma frowned. "Okay. I'll be right back with a bandage. Just stay there."

He did stay.

She had returned within a matter of minutes. "Why don't you take your shirt off?" Once she examined the gash, she sighed. "It's not bad at all." After wiping the flesh clean with a disinfectant cloth, she taped a piece of gauze over it.

Vegeta had let her work unhindered, and he did not mind when she gave him a peck on the cheek as she got up from her formerly crouched stance. When he glanced at her, he saw that she was smiling brightly. At least her mouth smiled brightly; her brow, by contrast, had knitted ever so slightly.

"What's on your mind?" she asked. She spoke cheerfully, but she could not disguise her concern from the Saiyan. No doubt testing him, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

"What gives you meaning in life?" His cold gaze pierced hers directly.

Bulma hesitated, then returned to her chair. "Oh, so you've been brooding over the meaning of life, huh?"

"Answer me."

"I haven't lived my whole life yet. I wouldn't know."

"Explain."

"If I've learned anything, I've learned that there's always something new to learn. It's what I do. I take old things apart, see if I can improve them, then do the whole thing over again. Sometimes I come up with new things altogether. It wouldn't do much good to assume I knew everything or that everything had an answer. Then I couldn't go anywhere. I'd just be frozen, if you know what I mean. Progress is good. Innovation is good. And my success proves it."

"Get to the point."

She thought for a good long while. "Sometimes it's better not to answer questions like, 'What is the meaning of life?' Maybe it's better just to ask and learn as we go—keep things open for improvement. Who ever said you needed answers to live anyway? Sure, it can be scary not knowing all the answers. Sticking to the answers is comfortable, and asking questions throws everything in flux and out of control. But isn't that how things are, like, in real life? It's kind of exciting, I think—always innovating." A pause, then a laugh. "Wow, you really got me going on that one! But why ask me something like that all of a sudden?"

"I wanted to know."

"Sounds like a cop out to me, but I'll let it slide." She shrugged. "Listen—why don't you go to bed early tonight? You seem kind of down, honestly. Not really in the mood, if you know what I mean. That's okay."

Bulma was right, and it annoyed him. He got up to leave. Perhaps he did not prefer her, after all; perhaps he had injured himself on purpose.

"Find me if you need me. Have a good night, Vegeta."


	42. Gift

Vegeta awoke before the late-shining winter sun had risen, and he put on his armor in the darkness. Only the thin stream of light that peeked under his bedroom's door illuminated the space around him. A light under the door—someone had left the hallway lights on. His hand resting on the doorknob, he stood motionless and paused to listen for any disturbance that lay on the other side. He heard only his heartbeat. His step suspicious, he stalked outside, then closed and locked the door behind him.

What he discovered on the corridor floor, just yard or two from the entrance to Bulma's room, surprised and intrigued him. Piles of papers sat scattered around the woman's laptop. A cup of coffee, toppled over with its former contents spilled onto the carpet, lay beside her open hand. Bulma herself, wrapped in a fluffy fleece bathrobe, reclined half on her side with her arm pillowing her head and with one hand still splayed across her laptop's keyboard. When she breathed loud, sleep-deepened breaths, a flyaway strand of hair fluttered in front of her open mouth. She looked positively ridiculous.

Unconsciously, Vegeta had crouched down to look at her more closely. "Woman," he grumbled loud enough to wake her, "what are you doing here?"

She stirred. "Hmm?" she whimpered softly as she rubbed one eye with a clumsy hand. Her eyelids, Vegeta noticed, had puffed and reddened slightly, perhaps with weariness, emotion, or both.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

Her gaze bleary, it took her a few seconds to process what she saw and heard, but when she finally did, recognition flared across her face. "Vegeta!" she exclaimed, snapping into an upright position.

"Why are you here?"

She fumbled with a few of the papers beside her. "I was... writing an article. On artificial gravity and time travel." An awkward pause, during which her finger found the power button of her laptop. "What time is it?"

"Seven forty-five," Vegeta answered before Bulma could type in her password. "You could have worked in your room or at your desk. That is not why you are here," he added flatly. He sat down, then snatched a stack of papers and made a quick survey of their contents. The titles and diagrams did seem to indicate studies in theoretical physics. At least she had made an effort to provide evidence for her alibi, but it could not fool Vegeta.

"Gravity warps space-time, as you know, so I've been puttering around with ideas about time travel now that my dad and I have pretty much got artificial gravity down. Could be interesting."

The Saiyan lowered the papers he held and glared at her. She was trying to distract him, and she was failing miserably. He knew why she was there—she had wanted to keep watch for him—but he would have her confess the reason.

She blurted it out forthwith. "I just wanted to make sure you knew I was there in case something was bothering you."

"You accomplish nothing by hovering about me," he stated sternly.

She ignored his statement. "Did you sleep well? You're up earlier than usual."

Vegeta usually slept deeply and dreamlessly after a day of harsh training, and yesterday's training had indeed treated him harshly. On such days, he would practically collapse into unconsciousness the moment he lay down. In fact, he often strained himself, among other reasons, _in order _to sleep well. This method achieved its purpose most nights, and it had worked for him last night. He had even expected to sleep longer than usual despite having retired to bed early, but had awoken early anyway. "Yes," he answered the woman simply.

"Going to eat breakfast and then train?"

"Why would I do anything else?"

She swallowed. "I don't know. If you were feeling bad, then maybe you'd do something different."

"What I choose to do is none of your concern in any case."

"Nothing I did got you upset, then? It might concern me if it was my fault."

He snorted condescendingly. "I have concerns apart from you, arrogant woman."

If Vegeta was not mistaken, the hint of a smile flickered into her expression. "I know. I just wanted to be sure." After closing her laptop and organizing a few stacks of paper on top of it, she edged herself toward Vegeta, mimicking his posture by hugging her knees to her chest. "And you know you can talk to me about things if you want."

Silently, he studied her. Although he had already been sitting beside her for some time, the fact of his doing so only just now occurred to him. As disheveled and ridiculous as she appeared, she made a captive of his attention nevertheless. With a pang of regret, he remembered that, last night, he could have easily taken pleasure and consolation in her body. He cursed whatever sort of senseless mood had made him choose sleep and solitude instead of the intimacy he had looked forward to the whole week long. Was he truly that averse to contentment, to himself? By no means could he say any longer that he had an aversion to the woman. Had anyone else watched over him as she had, it would have angered him. She infuriated him, certainly, but she did not anger him, and he was not wholly averse to her.

Bulma interrupted his thoughts. "Hey, Vegeta"—she brushed his hand with her own—"do you mind if I join you for breakfast? As you can see, I kind of need another coffee."

"You shouldn't have been so careless." Her carelessness—it infuriated him more than just about anything about her. She sprawled out all over life as recklessly as she had sprawled out and fallen asleep on the floor.

"That's not a 'yes' or a 'no.'" When she unfolded herself and stretched, her slippered foot pressed the side of his leg playfully.

Vegeta caught hold of her slender, smooth ankle, then forced it to the ground. Thereafter, he stood to his feet. "Do as you please. It does not matter to me." A lie—it did matter.

"Okay, then," she called after him as he descended the stairs. "I'll be right down after I put this stuff away."

Through the wide kitchen window, Vegeta saw the start of a rosy sunrise, its tones touching the clearing clouds with pale blushes of pink and gold. As he contemplated it, he exhaled deeply; he noted in passing that the gash in his side had closed considerably since the previous evening. At least he would not repeat the foolish behavior of yesterday—go without his armor and increase the chances of unnecessary injury. He still could not pinpoint why he had conducted himself thus in the first place. It did not matter now, whatever the reason. Knowing that the woman would come downstairs soon, he took his usual seat; he could already sense her approaching energy, although faint.

"Look at that sunrise, Vegeta!" she exclaimed once she entered the room and rested both hands on his shoulders. "And with all the snow—it's pretty."

He leaned forward in an attempt to escape her touch, then turned to glance at her askance. "What a pointless sentiment," he spat. The icy panorama the window offered them reminded him of nothing pleasant; it seemed almost strange that she could think of it otherwise.

"Oh, don't be such a cynic," Bulma tittered. "I'll get us some coffee, and we'll both feel better."

Vegeta watched her as she scooped aromatic grounds into the coffee machine. She had tied her hair back into a messy bun, showing off her elegant neck, and the same strand that had hung in front of her mouth as she slept adorned her forehead. Instead of her fleece bathrobe, she wore denim pants and an oversized jacket with the Capsule Corp. logo embroidered on it. If she planned on going downtown or to her headquarters, she would have worn something less casual, perhaps a pair of those impractically high-heeled shoes.

"You're not going anywhere today," the Saiyan stated at the same moment his brain processed the implications of her dress.

Bulma filled two mugs with hot coffee. "No. I'm going to tinker in the lab. Going to see if I can make a prototype of the gravity simulator that's more compact. Maybe work a bit more on that paper, too. Oh—and I might take a nap sooner or later. I'm really fucking tired. Stayed up most of the night."

"You do realize that altering local gravity can only hasten or slow down time relative to the affected area, do you not? You will succeed only in either aging yourself disproportionately to the universe around you or allowing time to pass more quickly around you while you remain essentially frozen with no hope of backward travel. If shifts in gravity were effective means of time travel, there would be many more time travelers. Artificial gravity devices have been common in this galaxy for several thousand years at least."

"Really now?" The woman smiled crookedly as she set a steaming mug down beside Vegeta's hand. "I've already come across that problem in the articles I've read. But who knows—there might be a way around it. That's what the research and experimentation are for. I'm not going to count it a closed case until I prove it to myself. None of the crusty old PhDs who wrote those stupid articles have ever built a gravity simulator that can replicate five hundred times Earth's gravity, so I'm not going to take their word for it—sorry." She elbowed the Saiyan's upper arm before sitting down beside him. "But the point you made was a very logical one. And hell, if not for you and your crazy gravity training, I might not have even thought to challenge it. So thanks for the gift of uncertainty! Merry Christmas to me."

Vegeta rolled his eyes, then took a scorching swig of his coffee. Her brilliance puffed up her pride unbelievably; if she really could defy logic, then she would succeed in impressing him—a tall order indeed.

Leaning forward, she kissed the outer corner of one eye. "I'll get you something to eat."

Before she could turn to leave, however, Vegeta reached up to grasp her jaw gently. Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to hers. He didn't need to see her to know she was smiling; he felt it against his mouth. She returned his kiss, then drew back. He let her go. What sort of fool had he been for not wearing his armor yesterday? Now he would have to wait another week for their scheduled time together. How could he have purposely sabotaged himself?

"Aw, I like you too," she chortled. "Let's see—what did my mom leave for you? Here we go."

Vegeta glanced at the digital clock the microwave displayed. It neared nine o'clock; by the time he finished breakfast, allowing extra time for any way the woman might delay him, it would likely near ten—the hour at which he customarily began the day's training. All would be as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened yesterday, and Vegeta favored this thought. Everything would be all right so long as he wore his armor today and every day, so long as he maintained order, kept everything under control, closed off every open possibility for divergence.

Both of them watched the sun rise from the horizon as they ate and spoke together at random. Their conversation was mundane, but Vegeta didn't care. He understood that the content of her words meant and mattered less than the woman who uttered them. He was glad that he had found her in the hallway, he realized, despite having not expected it. She thwarted his expectations constantly, and no prediction of his could enthrall her—another thing about her that infuriated him. Before he went off to train and she to her laboratory, she kissed him again, and Vegeta let her linger there as long as she willed. Bulma seemed happy when they parted; the happiness that glittered in her eyes chased away some of the dark weariness left over from her sleepless night.

He could hardly think straight as he strained under over four hundred times normal gravity. Space-time warped at the event horizon of a black hole; if that damned woman's time travel theories proved of any use, then perhaps he could press time around him into a haste, and when he emerged from the ship, Saturday would have arrived. But at the end of the day, it was still Sunday.

At least time seemed to pass quickly during sleep, so Vegeta looked forward to a night's rest with particular interest. He only had to disrobe and take his evening shower before he could do just that. But something made him pause in front of the door to his guestroom.

A plain, rectangular box of flimsy cardboard rested at Vegeta's feet. On top of it lay a red envelope that bore his name printed in Bulma's handwriting. He snatched up both, and vanished inside his room. If anything, he was curious.

He set the box down in the center of his bed and took the envelope in hand, opening it as swiftly and effectively as he could. A piece of folded, stiff paper was inside it. What he assumed was its front displayed something akin to an artistic representation of a snowy landscape. In an ink that gleamed a bit like satin read the words "Happy Holidays!" So far, the experience of the envelope and its contents sickened Vegeta, and not in a pleasant way. If he hadn't already seen that the woman's handwriting filled the inside fold of the stiff paper, he might have destroyed the thing altogether. He opened and read it:

_Sorry about the choice of card! It was the only one I had lying around. But who am I kidding—it's not like any card would have been appropriate for you. I wanted to give you one anyway, though. I guess it's my fault if you destroy it before reading it. It's a holiday custom we've got most places on this planet. Most people consider it a nice gesture among family, friends, and acquaintances._

_Speaking of holidays, one of the biggest winter holidays just happens to fall on this coming Saturday. I totally forgot to tell you that earlier this morning. I was really tired after staying up, and it was hard to keep everything straight in my head, so you'll have to forgive me for not telling you then. It might not have been the best time anyway, so maybe it was lucky. I'm going to be spending time with my family that day, if you understand that, and Yamcha and Puar will be there too like always. You're free to join us—there's going to be a shit-ton of amazing food. It's part of the holiday, at least at my house. But anyway, it could get awkward if we kept our usual Saturday plans, especially if you still don't want anybody to know about us. We can reschedule, though, so don't hesitate to come and find me if you'd like to._

_About the box—it's a gift. No funny business, I promise. I'm not trying to manipulate you or get anything out of you. It's just another common custom of the holiday. You don't have to give me anything in return. You've given me so much already, you know—inspiration, fun, excitement, challenges galore (not all of them bad ones), friendship. I think you will like the present. I _really_ hope you don't destroy it. You can destroy it if you hate what's inside, just make sure you at least open it before you do._

_A lot of people consider this holiday a time to stay home, relax, and spend time with the people you care about. It's a time to appreciate, enjoy, and be grateful for life and loved ones. That's probably a load of bullshit to you, but hey, I'm just telling you about the holiday in good scientific fashion. I'm not making you participate if you think it's silly. Truth be told, it _can_ be kind of silly. There's a reason everyone on this planet has a holiday horror story. I've got a million of them, let me tell you. They're funny now, but they weren't funny when they happened._

_Anyway, come talk to me if you want to reschedule. I know you like to plan things in advance. Have a good evening (or whenever you come across this), and have a good year, too. As truly strange as it is, I really like having you around, and I'm glad you seem to tolerate me and my family, no matter how crazy things have been. I guess that's all I'll say. I'm running out of card space, and you're probably running out of patience._

Her signature, exquisitely loopy and sloppy, ended her script. Vegeta did not destroy the card, as insultingly absurd as it looked; instead, he fit it back into its envelope, then stowed it away in an empty drawer. He didn't have to look at it there. Bulma's note had succeeded in stoking his curiosity about the box; she must have guessed how much the unknown annoyed him. He opened it.

Perfectly folded inside rested a navy blue garment which, within an instant of touching it, he recognized as cashmere. The heartbreaking softness was unmistakable. Without thinking, he had raised it to his face and run his cheek along the already warm fabric. He lost himself to the sensation and its memories, and did not care to find himself again for a few full moments. Vegeta noticed, when he finally set the sweater down, that he'd left a drop or two of moisture on it. His eyes had watered, it seemed.

All at once, he had realized why he had not worn his armor yesterday. He had had to remind himself of vulnerability's consequence. He'd stepped outside of himself, experienced ecstasy; he'd been given life, it had moved him, and he'd taken it at last; he'd become happy, and he was afraid. For what was life but another mistaken wish, another thing to be taken from him, then culminate in nothingness? He had seen enough destruction and despair to know that. He knew the legends; in singleness of mind, purpose, and heart lay the way to meaning and greatness. But he had broken down into multiplicity now, and he did not want to let go of the pieces. So he had punished himself for his sins, and he had bled and wept like the broken man he was.

* * *

**Author's Note: A good writer friend of mine, LadyLuckRogue, just recently published a beautiful Bulma/Vegeta one-shot titled "Castle of Glass," and I'd like to recommend it to you! The story handles the fate of future Vegeta and is therefore quite sad, but it is exquisitely so, and I'm confident that fans of my story might be fans of LadyLuckRogue's!**

**Another thing... I'm just curious! Why do you as a reader like _The Mistaken Wish_ if you like it? What keeps you coming back? I think my story is weird, and I obviously can't get the same sensations and feelings you guys get out of it, so I'd like to know what in particular, if anything, makes it stand out to you. Thanks for reading!**


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